


Remembered Landscape (In Ruins, But Not Ruined)

by amidststars



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Emotional Healing, Five Stages of Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Almei, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Romance, Smut, reverse slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22103602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidststars/pseuds/amidststars
Summary: Mustang had pulled him out of the mire once before. He’d lit the fire and given Ed purpose when he was at his absolute lowest, when he thought there was no way he could possibly go on. It was too much to expect him to do it again. But then, Mustang always had been good about doing whatever the fuck he wanted.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 79
Kudos: 214





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I finally decided to tackle the angst. This was technically the first idea that came to mind after I finished watching Brotherhood, but I figured I should get a few fluffier fics out of the way first. Couldn’t jump straight into this right off the bat. But we’re here now, so buckle up!
> 
> That being said, please mind the tags. The first few chapters will be pretty heavy, but I promise the second half of the fic will make up for it <3

Ed couldn’t look away from the grave.

He stared at it when it was being dug, when it was just an empty hole, and when they lowered the casket into it. He stared at it during the ceremony, through the prayers and the stories. He stared at it while mementos were dropped onto the polished wood only to be covered by dirt. He stared at it after everyone hugged him goodbye, offered their sympathies, and gradually drifted off. He stared at it as he sunk to his knees.

“Brother?”

The hands resting on top of his thighs clenched into fists as Ed’s chest tightened. Al hadn’t sounded that hollow and lost even when he was a suit of armor. “You go on, Al,” he said without looking back.

“You’re not coming?”

“No, I…” Ed shook his head, fighting to keep his voice steady. “No.”

A couple footsteps were the only warning Ed had before Al was sitting beside him. “I’ll stay with you, then.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ed said, finally tearing his gaze away from the grave with a frown. “There’s going to be a shit ton of people at the wake, and probably every single one of them is going to want to talk to you.”

Al lifted his brows. “They’d want to talk to you too.”

The thought of mingling with everyone, hearing more stories and reliving memories, made Ed’s skin crawl. He couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t be able to keep up the façade. The funeral itself had been hard enough. If he pushed it any further, he’d crumble.

Al must have been able to read that on his face because he fixed Ed with a sad look, nodded once, and said, “Okay.”

“It’s alright, Al. Promise. I just… need a minute.”

Or an hour, or a week, or a month. A year. A _hundred_ years. How could he possibly put a finite number on it? Was there some correlation between the importance of a person and the time it took to get over their death, some light at the end of the tunnel, some shred of fucking hope that he’d make it out of this without—

Ed quirked one corner of his mouth in the best approximation of a smile he could manage. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Al agreed, bumping Ed’s shoulder with his own. “See you later.”

He waited until Al was well down the road before turning back to the headstone. It gleamed in the fading light, bright white and brand new. He’d made it himself. No alchemy, just carved it from a chunk of misshapen stone, polished it, and engraved the letters with his own bare hands. It was the least he could do.

**Winry Rockbell  
1899 – 1918**

Nineteen.

She’d only been nineteen.

Winry could fabricate top-notch automail by the time she was eleven, had extensive medical knowledge despite never receiving any formal training, and was known for making bigger, stronger, better men than Ed cower in fear and awe, but she couldn’t live to fucking twenty years old.

Ed finally let his head fall forward, unable to look at the grave a moment longer. She was supposed to make it. Out of all of them, she deserved it the most. Everything she’d ever done was for other people. She’d healed them, helped them, saved them. Had saved _him_. And he hadn’t been able to save her back.

“It was almost time for an adjustment,” Ed whispered. “How am I supposed to brag about finally being taller than you if you’re not fucking here?”

There was no answer, though, just the mournful howl of the wind as it whipped at him, unrelenting. The ice-edge of it smelled like steel, like a storm blowing in, the first one of winter, and a heavy bank of clouds crawled slowly across the sky. Bleak, dreary, and painfully somber. It was a fitting day to bury his best friend.

Ed squeezed his eyes shut, fingers digging into the fresh plot of dirt. Nineteen years. Two hundred thirty-six months. Seven thousand one hundred eighty-three days, and it still wasn’t enough. Could _never_ be enough. He needed more. One more wrench to the head, one more lecture about taking care of his automail, one more argument, one more smile, one more hug, one more second, just fucking _one_ —

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t… that I didn’t…” Gritting his teeth, Ed forced back the stinging tears. “This…”

Wasn’t supposed to happen.

Wasn’t what he’d scraped and bled and almost died for.

Wasn’t… fair. It wasn’t fair. And maybe that was a childish thought, but Ed couldn’t bring himself to care. Drawing back, he punched the ground one, twice, three times before leaving his fist braced there and all but curling over it. First his mother. Then Nina. Now Winry. Why was it always the innocent who suffered most? How could people who’d never done anything wrong go like that, snuffed out in an instant? Where was their fucking equivalent exchange?

“Edward.”

The familiar voice cut through the grief, and Ed inhaled roughly in a poor attempt at composure before sitting back on his heels and looking over his shoulder. He’d thought everyone had left by that point, but there was Mustang, standing by himself a few feet back, decked out in his formal military blues. One hand held the hat in place while the other was tucked into his coat pocket, the tails of which flapped wildly in the wind. It was a harsh contrast to the torn, mournful expression on his face.

“I’m so sorry,” Mustang said, voice almost lost beneath a distant roll of thunder. He took a step forward. “Is there anything I can do?”

* * *

Ed dropped the empty whisky bottle halfway up the staircase, then promptly tripped over it, feet slipping on the hardwood as he fell. A wave of pain flared up his spine when one of the steps connected with his lower back. Fuck, that was going to bruise. Not as much as the side of his neck if the way Mustang was mouthing at it was anything to go by, but that was at least a willing victim. 

“You okay?” Mustang murmured into his skin.

Ed’s grasp on his coat had drug Mustang down as well, but he’d managed to catch himself on the stairs at the last minute. Now he shifted, leaning fully on his left hand so the right could slide behind Ed’s head and— ow, that hurt. He winced away from Mustang’s probing on instinct. Apparently, he’d hit his head too. But he wasn’t seeing stars or anything, and the fuzzy, drunken haze hadn’t lessened, so it couldn’t have been too bad. Honestly, nothing short of bleeding on the brain was going to stop him at this point.

“I’m fine.” Ed wiggled back into place. “No permanent damage.”

“Are you sure? You hit pretty hard. Maybe we should take a look at it.”

“Mustang, I can think of at least a dozen different things that would make it feel better, all of which include fewer clothes and none of which involve you poking and prodding at my skull,” Ed deadpanned. “For example...”

Hooking one leg around Mustang’s hips, Ed arched up. The angle caused the step to dig into his back again, but it was worth the pain to see Mustang’s eyes dilate at the way their cocks pressed together.

“That is…” Mustang swallowed thickly. “An excellent proposition. Can I ask what the other eleven might be?”

“If you stop wasting time and get me upstairs, I’ll show you.”

“As if I’m going to let you rush this.”

“I don’t need romancing, you bastard,” Ed said. “I need fucking.” Fast and hard and so, so _good_.

“Why can’t we do both?” Mustang huffed a laugh at Ed’s frustrated groan. “You are entirely too impatient.” However, he didn’t resist when Ed slithered out from beneath him and stood.

They stumbled up the rest of the stairs, down the hallway, and into Ed’s bedroom. He barely had a chance to kick the door closed before Mustang was crowding him against it. The hands cupping Ed’s face were gentle, but there was nothing gentle about the way Mustang kissed him. It was desperate, primal, all teeth and tongue and heat.

Ed fumbled blindly at the fastenings of Mustang’s uniform. The coat and jacket came off easily; the shirt, not so much. No matter how much he worked at them, the buttons kept slipping out of his fingers. He’d blame the clumsiness on the whiskey, but Mustang had also slotted one leg firmly between Ed’s, and the _pressure_. Fuck, that pressure. He couldn’t help but grind against it, moan into the kiss as he felt the answering press of Mustang’s cock against his hip.

Another button refused to come free, and Ed pulled away with a growl. Fuck Mustang and his stupid fucking shirts with their five hundred fucking microscopic buttons. Ed needed to touch him, to feel that bare skin with his own hands. Grabbing the hem, Ed gave a sharp yank, and the handful of buttons that had been evading him pinged across the floor.

Mustang blinked, looked from Ed to the ruined shirt and back again. “I liked that shirt,” he said simply.

“It was nice,” Ed agreed. “Looks better on the floor, though.”

Rather, Mustang looked better with it on the floor, which was saying something because all clothes managed to look ridiculously good on him, but the fact remained.

Flattening his hands on Mustang’s chest, Ed walked him backwards to sit on the edge of the bed and nudged apart his legs to stand between them. He was taller like this, but that didn’t change the dynamics. His heart raced out of control as Mustang undid his waistcoat and shirt, skimmed his hands up Ed’s sides and over his shoulders, guided the material off. The bastard didn’t even break eye contact while he did it. It was enough to make Ed's head spin. For someone so in control, he felt so at mercy.

But the whiskey…

Thank fuck for the whiskey because, while it may have made him clumsy, it also gave him the courage to push Mustang back onto the mattress, crawl onto the bed to straddle him, and lick his way into his mouth. And that was fucking _nice_. Nicer than Mustang’s shirt on the ground. Nicer than the goosebumps that rose along his back in the wake of Mustang’s searching fingers.

Would be even nicer with fewer layers of clothing separating their dicks, but that was an easy enough fix.

Ed slithered down Mustang’s body, nipping and sucking as he went. For all they’d clashed over the years, he’d never fooled himself into thinking Mustang wasn’t attractive. Maybe in the beginning, when he was fifteen wondering why picturing that smug face got him off so much faster, but since then? There’d been too many wet dreams, too many inopportune hard-ons, too many times he’d hastily beat one out under cover of the shower for it to be anything else.

And fucking hell Mustang looked just as good as he’d always imagined. The taut ridges of muscle that jumped beneath Ed’s mouth, the smooth expanse of skin marred only by the scar from the fight with Lust, that dark line of hair starting at his navel drawing Ed down, down, down. It was intoxicating. If Truth really was a god or whatever, it had done fucking right with Mustang.

The clasp of Mustang’s pants came loose easily, and Ed pressed a hot, open-mouth kiss to the V above his hip as he drew down the zipper and slipped his fingers through the open fly.

"God," Mustang rasped when Ed's hand closed around his cock.

"Met him. Not impressed." Ed gave an experimental pump, eyes flicking briefly up through the curtain of his bangs. He liked the way Mustang felt in his hand, liked the way his dick looked gliding through Ed's curled fingers. "You’re better."

“God— _Ed_.”

Shifting lower, Ed released Mustang in favor of tugging at his pants. A damp spot was already darkening the front of Mustang’s briefs, and the thin material did nothing to hide the outline of his straining cock. His hips were lifting in encouragement, eyes dark, mouth slack, breaths stuttered—

And Ed’s blood was on fucking fire. Heat rushed through him, five years of suppressed urges lighting him up all at once. Forget touching, Ed wanted to fucking _taste_ him. It really was a shame they spent so much time butting heads. They could’ve done this a lot sooner. But there were over a billion nerves in the human body, and Mustang knew how to get on every single one of Ed’s, making him one of the most frustrating people Ed had ever met. The only one who’d ever even managed come close was—

Ed stiffened.

Immediately, Mustang went still and reached up to touch his cheek. “Ed?”

Winry.

Oh god, he’d been about to think of Winry. Now. When he was inches away from peeling off the rest of Mustang's clothes. When all he was trying to do was _not_ think about her.

Ed closed his eyes as the wave of grief he’d been holding at bay lapped at the edges of his resolve. It was trying to wear him down, searching for a way in so it could tear him apart. He should've known not to let down his guard for even a second.

“Edward,” Mustang said again, this time more insistent, and Ed’s eyes snapped open and up. The concern in that dark gaze was unmistakable. “Maybe we should—”

"Don’t." Ed shook his head vehemently. "Don't you fucking say it." 

"But—"

"But nothing. I'm fine. Everything's fine." Mustang's expression turned sad, and Ed welcomed the flicker of annoyance that crept back in around the pain. At least that was familiar. "Would you stop fucking looking at me like that?"

Ed reached for Mustang's pants again only to have his wrists caught in a loose hold. "No, because you're not fine, Ed," Mustang said. "You're not supposed to be."

"I _am_ , god damn it, I… I'm…"

Going to be sick. He was going to be sick. The whiskey that had been giving him strength now felt sour in his stomach, bubbled up to burn the back of his throat. It was all too fresh, raw-edged and painfully bright like staring into the sun. He couldn't look directly at the reality, much less delve into it. Not yet. Possibly not ever.

Jerking his hands free, Ed slapped them to the mattress on either side of Mustang's face. "I don't want to stop, and I don't want to talk about it. Don't want to _think_ about it. Don't want to think about _anything_."

"Edward…"

"Did you want to talk about Hughes after he died?" Ed challenged. When Mustang didn't respond, he nodded sharply. "That's what I thought."

"Acting like it didn't happen won't change anything, though. It'll still be there." Mustang found Ed's forearm, but instead of grabbing, he just curled his hand lightly around it, swept his thumb across the inside of Ed's wrist. "The world doesn't go away when we close our eyes."

"Maybe not, but it sure hurts less. Now would you shut up and fucking—"

Rocking forward, Ed pointedly thrust his dick against Mustang's. He wasn't quite as hard anymore, but he'd come back from worse buzzkills than this. And Mustang was still plenty interested, judging from the hiss of breath through his teeth at the contact. That fucking look, though. The corners of Mustang's mouth were tight, brows pinched, eyes focused. Ed knew that look. He wasn't going to let this go without a fight.

Problem was, Ed didn’t have that kind of fight in him. He was already stretched to the breaking point. One more even just sliver of emotion was going to tip him over the edge, and he couldn’t handle that. Mustang could probably feel him shaking as it was, struggling to keep it together.

Blood rushed in Ed's ears as he sat back and pressed his forehead to Mustang's sternum, avoiding that keen gaze. It was the only way he could get the words out.

“Damn it, I need this, Mustang. Call me fucking weak or pathetic, but… I can’t take it. I _can’t_. I've gotta get out of my head. I need to forget, even if it’s only for a little while. Don’t—” Ed swallowed. “Don’t make me fucking beg. Please, just… don’t. Please.”

For a minute, Ed thought Mustang was going to stand his ground. It made him want to kick himself for saying everything he had, for abandoning even that much of his pride. But then Ed felt the slightest brush of fingers through his hair and looked up to see something that could only be resignation settle over Mustang’s features.

"Okay," he said softly. "Okay."

Such a simple thing - four letters, two syllables - but it might as well have been a call to action. In one smooth motion, Mustang looped one leg around Ed's, pressed against the opposite shoulder, and flipped them. It would've been impressive if Ed wasn't so god damn relieved.

Mustang stripped off the rest of Ed's clothes without preamble. The sudden rush of cool air made him squirm, arching up instinctively, but Mustang splayed one hand over his hip to hold him in place while the other… oh god, the other was on his cock, pulling out long, smooth strokes as Mustang kissed his way down Ed's body until he could mouth at the tip.

" _Fuck_ ," Ed groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

Yes, this was it. This was what he wanted. To forget that he'd never hear tinkering down the hall again. That the house was empty, so full of ghosts he could barely stand it. And it worked. All those thoughts clawing at his heart vanished in an instant when Mustang finally moved his hand to curl around the base of Ed's dick, licked a hot stripe along the underside, then proceeded to take him all the way down.

Ed whined in the back of his throat. Of course Mustang would be that good with his mouth. All those years of bullshitting and politics had to count for something. He swallowed around Ed, pulled back enough to swirl his tongue around the head, bobbed his head shallowly a few times, came off completely before doing it all again. It was enough to drive Ed fucking crazy.

“You damn— _ah_ , you’re such a bastard,” Ed choked out, alternating between scrabbling at Mustang’s shoulders and grasping his hair. “Stop— fucking teasing.”

Mustang’s only reply was to flick his tongue along the slit of Ed’s cock before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing as he doled out that slick heat. Gasping, Ed writhed beneath him. How was it possible for something to feel so fucking _good_? Starbursts of light were exploding against the backdrop of his eyelids like fireworks in the night sky, and the thread of want coiling tighter and tighter through his entire fucking body made him feel like he was about to do the same.

When Mustang started having to use both hands to keep Ed still, he came off with a wet pop and asked, “Oil?”

“In the drawer, let me—”

Ed shoved himself backwards, heels pushing against the mattress as he twisted and stretched and eventually dug the small jar out of the side table. In that, thankfully, Mustang wasted no time. He followed Ed further onto the bed, slicked up his fingers, and guided one of Ed’s legs up onto his shoulder. Then the first finger slid home, and Ed threw his head back as Mustang slowly but steadily began to work him open.

“God,” Mustang breathed, running his free hand up Ed’s side. “You have no idea how incredible you look.”

“Fucking shut up.” Covering his face with one arm, Ed shook his head. “I don’t— I’m not—”

“You do.” Mustang curled his fingers as if to prove his point, and a sharp jolt flashed down Ed’s spine. “You always do.”

There was an unexpected softness to the words that, accompanied by the brief sensation of lips to the inside of his knee, made an altogether different heat twist in Ed’s stomach. That wasn’t what he was after, though. Things were shitty enough without complicating everything else. Instead, he pushed it all aside and focused on the physical, lost himself in the sweet burn as Mustang added a third finger, chased that feeling higher and higher.

“That’s good, _fuck_ , I’m good,” Ed panted, clutching at the sheets. “Come on, Mustang, just fuck me already.”

Mustang drug across his prostate one last time, and Ed’s hips bucked involuntarily. The spike of pleasure hadn’t even fully crested before Mustang was withdrawing to kick off the rest of his uniform. It was tossed carelessly aside, and Ed stroked himself absently, watching through half-lidded eyes while Mustang searched for the jar of oil among the sheets. His face was flushed, neck and chest covered in a thin sheen of sweat despite the cool room, lower lip caught between his teeth as he slicked up his cock.

Fuck, Ed wanted him.

 _Needed_ him.

Had him, oh fuck, oh _god_ —

Mustang nosed along Ed’s jaw once he bottomed out. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Ed gasped. “ _Fuck_ yes.”

The sting of the initial stretch flitted at the edges of his mind, but he welcomed the pain. At least this was the kind he could manage. Still, even that faded into the background when Mustang rolled his hips, pressing impossibly deeper with a strangled moan that made Ed fucking throb down in his very bones.

Turning his head, Ed sought out Mustang’s mouth. “More,” he said, punctuating the demand with a sharp nip to Mustang’s bottom lip, which earned him an equally sharp thrust. “ _Ah_ — again.”

The second snap of Mustang’s hips wrung a low rumble from deep in Ed’s chest. He distantly registered one of Mustang’s hands smoothing along the outside of his thigh and down to grab his ass as Ed panted beneath him. It felt like he was going to die, like he was going to vibrate out of his skin into another plane of existence.

Ed jerked up, fucking himself on Mustang’s cock in one last wordless plea, before looping an arm around Mustang’s neck in a desperate attempt to ground himself as they finally – _finally_ – picked up a steady rhythm.

It was perfect. It was incomparable. It was the fundamental need for intimacy boiled down to its most primitive bare bones. Flesh meeting flesh, heady rush of blood through veins, grating exhales and pounding heartbeats and that white-hot blaze skittering along his nerves all the way to his fucking core when Mustang changed the angle _just right_. God, it was fucking transcendent.

Mustang slipped a hand between their bodies and closed it around Ed’s dick. He stroked in time with his thrusts, and the way he twisted around the head each time had Ed’s breath catching, his thoughts scattering, and his eyes rolling back before closing completely.

“Holy _shit_ , yes.” Dragging Mustang closer, Ed pressed their foreheads together and held on for dear life in the face of that delicious, coiling, mounting pressure. “Right— fucking— like that—”

Mustang groaned out a hoarse answering, “ _Fuck_.”

And that was what did it.

The world condensed and narrowed, coalescing into blinding light as Ed shuddered apart, coming in hot spurts across his stomach while, above him, Mustang lost pace and followed suit with something that might have been Ed’s name falling from his lips.

* * *

Early morning sunlight peeked through the curtains to slash a narrow stripe across Ed’s face. Squinting, he withdrew one arm from beneath the blanket to shield his eyes and continued to study Mustang, still sleeping on the opposite side of the bed. And wasn’t that a string of words he’d never thought would come to fruition.

Mustang. Was sleeping. In his bed. In Ed’s bed. Roy Mustang was sleeping in Ed’s bed. And he was probably naked. Most definitely post-coital. A naked General Roy Mustang was sleeping in Ed’s bed after having done the deed with his own subordinate. Who just so happened to be Ed. Ed was the subordinate.

This was… well, surreal was the first word that came to mind, but disaster was a close second. Next was fuck, but that had so many different connotations it was hard to narrow them down.

_Fuck, what the hell was I thinking?_

_Fuck, he looks good like that._

_Fuck, we fucked._

Ed grimaced. They were all pretty applicable. Maybe he should just stick with a generic _fuck, fuck, fuck_. Then again, that had pretty much been his litany from the night before and didn’t sound nearly so well in the cold light of day. At least not until Mustang woke up and they had to sort through this mess. Then it would become his personal anthem.

But there was no use worrying about that just yet. One step at a time, and first things first, he needed to piss.

Sliding out of bed, Ed pulled on old pair of pajama pants and a shirt, quietly left the room, and shuffled down the hall to the bathroom to take care of business. He splashed water on his face when he was done to shake off the vestiges of sleep and frowned at his reflection. Hair loose and tangled around his shoulders, dark bags beneath his eyes, skin sallow and pale… he looked the same as he felt: like shit.

Ed moved the collar of his shirt and ran his thumb over a red mark Mustang had left above his collarbone. More proof that last night really had happened. The particulars of how they’d reached that point were a little hazy, though. There’d been the walk back to the house, some discussion before the fireplace, a lot of alcohol. Possibly a hug? Or maybe Mustang just clasped his shoulder.

Not that it mattered either way because there was nothing hazy about the rest. When it felt like he was going to drown in the darkness, he’d hidden beneath the whiskey and run straight into Mustang’s arms, and now he had to live with the memory of all that came after.

Ed scrubbed his hands down his face.

Coffee.

He needed coffee.

Pinako’s bedroom door was already open, but Al’s was still shut. It wasn’t often Ed woke up first, but if there was ever a time to do so, this was it. The fewer witnesses the better. He patted Den on the head, pointedly ignoring which room the dog had chosen to curl up in front of, and headed downstairs. Pinako was sitting at the table when he trudged into the kitchen.

“Rough night?” she asked, giving him a cursory scan from head to toe.

“Rough life,” Ed corrected. At least the coffee was already made. He snatched up the biggest mug he could find, filled it to the brim, and took a long sip.

“We missed you at the wake last night.”

The words slid between his ribs like a fucking knife, sharp enough to take his breath away. Ed closed his eyes for a minute as he attempted to shove the pain back into the box it had slithered out of. When it felt marginally safe, he opened his eyes again and refilled the empty space in his coffee mug with a splash of brandy.

“It’s a little early to be hitting the bottle,” Pinako observed.

“Just trying to take the edge off my headache.” It wasn’t technically a lie. There was a persistent throbbing at the base of his skull, although he figured it had less to do with being hungover and more to do with the third degree he could see coming from a mile away.

"There are better methods than that."

"They're also slower." Ed swilled his mug. "I think I'm entitled to some quick and dirty medication every now and then."

“Perhaps, but that’s a slippery slope.”

Biting back a sigh, Ed massaged his temples with one hand. Sometimes he hated being right. “You know, lectures are another thing it’s too fucking early for.”

“I just don’t want to see you lose yourself,” Pinako said. “You’re too young for that.”

“Says the one who could drink full-grown men under the table by the time she was fifteen.” Dropping into the chair across from her, Ed took a pointed sip of his coffee. “And since when is one drink losing yourself?”

Pinako leveled him with a knowing look. The severity of it made him instantly nervous, a feeling that was justified when she leaned over to pick up something off the floor and wordlessly plunked it onto the table between them.

Ed stared at the empty whiskey bottle he’d left on the stairs last night. There was no point in lying about it. Pinako had always kept tabs on how much liquor was in the sideboard, so she’d know it had been over half full before he got ahold of it. And honestly, he had no reason to be ashamed. He was an adult now, damn it, and he’d watched people do far worse things sober.

But he did. Feel ashamed, that was. Just a little.

“You’re not the only one who’s lost people, Ed.” Pinako’s attention drifted to the corkboard on the far wall, to the mess of pictures pinned to its surface. “I know how easy it is to hide in the bottom of a bottle.”

Setting down his mug, Ed leaned forward to prop his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. “Who’re you calling so small they can fit in a bottle?” he asked in a weak imitation of his usual defensiveness.

“Who do you think, half-pint?” For once, the barb didn’t grate at him. It was too laced with fondness for that. “One night here and there is understandable. I’ve been there too. Just… be careful.”

Ed knew where she was coming from. It would be all too simple to let the alcohol blur away reality, to live in that white space left behind where nothing mattered. But he’d never been dependent on anything in his life, and he had no intentions of starting now. However, before he could offer any reassurance, the ceiling creaked above them, not from the direction of Al’s room but his own.

“Ah, sounds like your company is awake,” Pinako said, holding the pipe between her teeth while she hopped off the chair. “I’ll take that as a cue to make myself scarce.”

“You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be? You’re old enough to make your own decisions. But don’t expect me to wash your sheets.”

Ed cringed. “ _Granny_ ,” he grumbled, but she was already dumping the empty whiskey bottle in the trash and rounding the corner with a faint chuckle.

The sounds of Mustang moving around the room continued overhead, and Ed glanced at his mug of doctored coffee. Forget the headache. He needed something to shore up his nerves. He took one last drink as the movements shifted from the bedroom to the hallway, dumped the rest down the sink in a conciliatory gesture no one was around to appreciate, and was refilling his mug with straight coffee when the footsteps stopped.

Steeling himself, Ed turned to face Mustang. He hovered in the doorway, shoulder braced against the frame, uniform jacket and coat slung over the opposite arm, hair finger-combed into order. He’d fixed his shirt before coming downstairs, too, all the buttons reattached and done up. Anyone else would've said he looked casual. In reality, it was the most uncomfortable Ed had ever seen him.

That carefully blank expression, the subtle rounding of his shoulders that was almost guarded. Ed had spent enough years on Mustang’s team to know the playboy front was an exaggeration, but there had to be at least some grain of truth to the rumors, and he had a hard time picturing Mustang so… tense after a fling. It was oddly reassuring, knowing he wasn’t the only one anxious about how this conversation would go.

“Morning,” Ed said quietly.

Mustang dipped his chin. “Good morning.”

“Sleep okay?”

“I did. You?”

Ed opened his mouth, then paused. Normally, he’d shoot off the customary _yeah_ without caring whether or not it was true, but it seemed silly to try and save face now considering he’d practically begged Mustang to stick his dick in his ass in an attempt to ignore what was really going on not even twelve hours ago. Ed settled for a vague shrug instead.

“I slept,” he said. It was as close to the truth as he could get. “Do you want some coffee? Or… uh… tea? Al’s the only one who drinks that, but I’m sure there’s still some around here somewhere.”

Finally entering the room, Mustang laid his jacket and coat over the back of one of the chairs. “Coffee would be wonderful, thank you.”

Ed slid a cup across the table, then turned to the fridge. “I can also make something if you’re hungry.” This was what he was supposed to do, right? Proper morning after etiquette or whatever it was Havoc always rambled on about? “We don’t have much right now… kinda been, you know, in and out the past couple weeks… but there’s eggs.” He checked the top shelf. “And eggs.” He checked behind the jug of milk that wasn’t worth mentioning. “And eggs.”

Of course they’d have pretty much nothing. Fuck, he had to be the worst lay in history. Mustang didn’t seem offended, though. He sat at the table, hands wrapped around the coffee mug, and offered Ed a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but was a smile nonetheless.

“I’m fine with just coffee.” Mustang tipped the mug in his direction. “It’s good, by the way.”

“Thanks. I’d take credit, but Granny was the one who made it.” If it didn’t feel like he was navigating a minefield, Ed might have laughed at the way Mustang froze. “Don’t worry, I don’t think she knows it’s you who’s here. Even if she did, she probably wouldn’t care.”

“And Alphonse?” Mustang asked.

“Still sleeping.”

Ed didn’t mean it as an attempt to hurry Mustang out of the house – he refused to be that guy no matter how lousy the rest of his etiquette was – but it did make it known things could get very awkward very quick if Al walked in. Not that things weren’t awkward already. They sat at the table in silence, sipping their coffee as the seconds gradually bled into minutes, looking everywhere but each other except for when their eyes would accidentally meet anyway only to dart apart just as quickly.

It was unbearable, the weight of things unsaid. Ed couldn’t stand it. If they were ever going to work together again, he had to clear the air. But what were you supposed to say after fucking your commanding officer? And would it even help? He might have imagined sticking his tongue down Mustang’s throat before, but actually going through with it changed things, never mind all the rest. How was he supposed to sit in the office now knowing just how good Mustang looked naked, the way he kissed, how his dick felt in Ed’s hand, the sounds he made when he—

“So,” Ed began, fidgeting with the handle of his coffee mug. Better to just get it over with. “About last night.”

Mustang shook his head. “You don’t have to do this, Edward.”

“Yeah, I do because… I’m really fucking sorry for… well, for all of it. It was a mistake. A stupid fucking mistake. I was upset. And lonely. And I’d had way too much to drink, which isn’t an excuse but… you were there and… I didn't really think, I just...” Lowering his head, Ed raked a hand through his bangs. “Fuck."

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Mustang said softly. “We can’t help what we need.”

“I know, I just… I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“If I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t have offered.”

Ed drug the same hand down his face. “Ugh, would you stop being so fucking nice about all of it?”

“Would you rather me be angry?" Mustang asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Kinda. Maybe." It would be easier, at any rate. Anger was straightforward and simple, none of… whatever this was. "It was wrong of me to unload all my shit on you, to… use you like that.”

One of Mustang’s fingers tapped idly against the table. “If it’s any consolation, you could hardly call it using. I didn’t exactly stop you.”

“You tried,” Ed refuted, glancing up.

“Not very hard.”

Ed tilted his head in consideration. Mustang’s resolve _had_ crumbled surprisingly fast. If it was something he was truly intent on, no amount of begging or pleading should’ve been able to budge him. But then, Mustang cared about his team. That included Ed. Last night was probably nothing more than a temporary weakness on Ed’s part that Mustang had been too noble, caring, and self-sacrificing to deny.

Or maybe he’d had too much whiskey also. Ed hadn’t been paying close attention, but he did remember passing the bottle back and forth in front of the fireplace. Surely Mustang had taken enough shots to push him over the edge. A drunken one-night stand would be infinitely easier to stomach than a pity fuck. Deciding to go with that, Ed huffed what he hoped was a convincing laugh.

“I guess we both had too much to drink,” he said.

Mustang stared at him for a second, then a slight, almost rueful smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Seems so.”

The knot of tension that had coiled itself down Ed’s spine slowly unwound. He didn’t know if Mustang was telling the truth, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he couldn’t handle a verbal confirmation of the contrary right then. Thank fucking whoever for small mercies.

Sucking down the last of his coffee, Ed leaned back in the chair. “I've also been meaning to ask if I could take some more leave. I know I’ve been gone for a while, but I don’t… if I came back now, I doubt I’d be much use.”

“Of course,” Mustang said. “No one expected you to come back so soon.”

Ed gave a grateful nod. “Don’t let Fuery fuck up that new surveillance radio while I’m gone. We just finished tweaking it. And tell Havoc and Breda I’m sorry for saddling them with all the paperwork.”

“You act like you three are the only ones dealing with it.”

Arching one brow, Ed shot Mustang a skeptical look. “Uh, I hate to break it to you, General, but arranging the stacks on your desk into a makeshift fort to hide from Hawkeye doesn’t count.”

“That was one time, and even you have to admit it was impressive,” Mustang retorted with a smile, this time more genuine.

“Until she buried you under it, maybe. How long did she keep on you before you caught up? Two days?”

“Three. I barely got breaks for meals."

Ed snorted. "Sounds brutal. I bet your hand cramped up from holding a pen that long."

“It did,” Mustang agreed. "My neck, too, from looking down at all those requisition forms."

“Well fuck, the major forcing you to do your job is the real crime of the century.”

“It’s tragic, really. Everyone’s been too preoccupied with homunculi, coup d’états, and nationwide restoration to notice.”

“What a selfish bunch of bastards.”

The memory of Mustang more or less pouting at his desk, barely visible behind the heaps of paper with Hawkeye standing guard, was a welcome bit of levity. Almost as good as the ribbing itself. Things felt dangerously close to normal as Ed stood to rinse out his mug.

"Do you want some more?" he asked, gesturing to the coffee pot. "There's plenty."

“Sure, if you… actually, no. I should probably be heading out.” The sudden backpedaling had Ed glancing over his shoulder. At the table, Mustang’s smile had fallen flat. “The team and I were planning to catch the first train back to East City this morning.”

“Oh. Right.”

"Also, I think it best I leave before your brother wakes up,” Mustang continued. “That's one confrontation I’d rather avoid. Not that I _want_ to rush out, mind you, I just—”

Rolling his eyes, Ed cut him off. “Relax, Mustang. You don’t have to justify yourself. Stick to the schedule, avoid questions, blah, blah, blah. I get it." Honestly, he wanted the same thing. The sooner they put this behind them, the sooner they could forget it ever happened. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Mustang trailed him through the house to the front door, shrugging on his jacket and doing up the series of clasps as they went. While he pulled on his overcoat, Ed frowned at the crisp, clean lines still pressed into the uniform. The damn thing didn’t even look like it had spent the night crumpled on the floor, whereas Ed looked like he’d crawled out of last night’s whiskey bottle. Figured… only Mustang could make a walk of shame that impressive.

“Hey,” Ed said, and Mustang’s hands stilled in the middle of adjusting his collar. “Thank you for coming yesterday. To the funeral. It meant a lot. And for… well… yeah. Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Mustang responded gently. “No one should have to deal with something like this alone.”

 _Pity fuck_ came to mind again, and Ed ducked his head and hid the instinctive wince by reaching for the doorknob. “I’ll be back soon. I’m not sure when, exactly, but I’ll keep you posted.”

Ed wrenched open the door. They were met with a frigid blast of wind, but Mustang made no move to leave. Eventually, Ed peeked up to find those dark eyes soft and questioning as they flitted across his face. _Don't_ , he thought when Mustang's mouth opened, hand tightening around the doorknob, and some of that desperation must have come through because Mustang paused to reconsider, then sighed.

"Okay," he said. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

Ed couldn’t manage more than a thin-lipped, shallow nod in response.

He waited until Mustang had descended the steps before closing the door and sagging back against it. What a fucking mess. Obviously, things with Mustang would be fine. They were both adults. They could still work together without things being weird. Too weird. Weirder than normal. That wasn't what he was worried about.

No, it was more his conflicted emotions because, as relieved as he was to have this morning over with, there was also a distinct ache seeing Mustang leave. His presence had been a barrier against the emptiness, a distraction. What was Ed supposed to do now that he was gone? The silence of the house was already creeping in, that suffocating stillness pressing down on him, reminding him of everything he’d lost.

Ed slowly slid to the floor, crossed his arms over his bent knees, and buried his face in them.

He’d never felt so alone.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright, the table will be centered in this section, and three benches will go here, here, and here. That leaves the fourth side open to the south. It is supposed to be south, right? Okay, good. The pergola has to be symmetrical with the table, but we also need to leave enough room for the tree to grow, so let’s put this post here. Square it off and that puts the others—”

“No!”

Ed paused halfway through marking off the location for one of the pergola’s other three posts to see Mei drop a box of gold bells and begin jogging across the sprawling courtyard towards them. She was waving her arms wildly above her head and, judging by her expression, clearly distressed.

“What did we do wrong now?” Al asked.

With a sigh, Ed sat back into a crouch and braced his elbows on his knees. “Beats me. You’re the expert here.”

“I’m hardly an expert. Xing is five times older than Amestris. You can’t expect me to learn every facet and nuance of their culture in eight months.”

“You could if you spent more time studying.”

“Excuse you,” Al huffed, stepping forward and knocking one knee into Ed’s back. “I study with Mei almost every night.”

Ed hummed. “I’m sure you do.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Staring at each other all googly-eyed over open books doesn’t count as studying. Just saying.”

Before Al could get out more than an offended _Hey!_ , Mei was stomping across the square section of dirt that had been assigned to Ed and Al. The bottom half of her pants was soaked from the water feature she’d been working on, and the droplets created a muddy path that Xiao Mei, trailing closely in her wake, hopped back and forth to avoid.

“What are you doing?” Mei demanded when she stopped before Ed, hands on her hips. A few years ago, he would’ve been eye to eye with her even crouching as he was. Now, an unfair growth spurt on her part had him squinting up.

“What does it look like? We’re working on your courtyard.”

Mei gestured first to the cedar posts laid out on the ground, then the stack of wooden beams piled off to one side that would eventually become the top of the pergola and the bench-table combo. “But this is supposed to be earth.”

“Shit, you’re right. What happened to the ground, it’s— wait, hold on— is that—” Leaning over, Ed dramatically patted the packed dirt beneath his feet. “Oh, there it is. Thank fuck, I thought we lost it for a—”

“The _element_ , you idiot,” Mei snapped, and Xiao Mei let out a supportive growl. “You’re putting in too much wood. The pergola, the benches, the tree, the plants… it’s going to make the whole energy destructive.”

“Sure will look nice, though.”

“It’s not just about it looking nice! This goes against the flow of chi. Earth nourishes wood, not the other way around. You’re pulling the cycle out of balance.”

Ever the mediator, Al rested a hand on Ed’s shoulder as he tried to pacify Mei. “You said you wanted a covered sitting area. Wood really is the best option, but maybe we could decorate with pottery instead of plants? Flagstones beneath the sitting area should also help the balance, but if that still isn’t enough, we can substitute a small fire pit for the table. Wouldn’t that enhance the earth energy?”

Mei’s glare softened the instant her attention flicked to Al. “It would. Thank you, Alphonse, those are wonderful ideas. You’re always so helpful. If you don’t mind the changes, I think they’d make this area perfect.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Al assured her. “Anything you want. We’re just happy to help.”

The hand on Ed’s shoulder gave a pointed squeeze, and he exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Happy to help.”

Ed didn’t know why he bothered playing along. Neither of them were paying him any mind, too busy staring at each other. Even a string of insults probably wouldn’t have caught their attention. Mei was wearing a faint smile, and Al’s expression was unbearably gentle, and Ed, glancing back and forth between them, fought the urge to groan. It wasn’t googly-eyes, but it was close enough. Disgusting.

“Well,” Ed said loudly, pushing up to his feet. “If that’s all your princesship needs, maybe you can stop wasting our time and let us get back to work?” He jabbed an elbow into Al’s side to emphasize the point and watched him blink slowly.

“Work. Right.”

Ed rolled his eyes. At least Mei was more articulate.

“Of course,” she said. “Everything sounds great, so I’ll leave you to it. I look forward to seeing the finished result.”

Spinning on one heel, Mei was gone in a swirl of silk and long braids, and Xiao Mei bounded closer long enough to kick dirt onto Ed’s boots before following as well. It was a perfectly normal end to the conversation. _Too_ normal. Too _nice_ , especially one where he was involved. The fact that Mei hadn’t noticed his jab… Al startled when he finally turned away from the retreating Mei long enough to notice Ed’s critical, sidelong look.

“What?”

“Studying, huh?” Ed asked, crossing his arms.

“We do!”

“You sure you want to stick with that?”

Al sniffed as he retrieved a pair of shovels from the far edge of the plot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brother.”

“Sure,” Ed said. “Whatever you say.”

Despite Al’s breezy dismissal, there was no disguising his reaction. Even with the distance and the shade from the cherry blossom tree, Ed could see the way the tips of his ears turned brilliantly red. Mei’s affection had never been in question, but Al’s was something he’d suspected for a while. Not anymore.

It was strange, imagining Al in a relationship. They’d always talked about the things he couldn’t wait to do once he got his body back. Smelling, eating, sleeping. _Feeling_. Actually fucking _touching_ something. A thousand and one experiences Al had been denied as a suit of armor. Their search had stretched so long and hit so many dead-ends there were times Ed had wondered if they’d ever succeed, if Al would ever be able to live a normal life, if he’d even be able to _live_.

But they had, and now he got to see Al smile and blush, burn his tongue because he was too eager to wait for his food to cool, drool in his sleep, suffer bruises and stubbed toes and scrapes, learn how to school his features so he wasn’t an open book, laugh so hard his sides hurt, brush his teeth and shave. Even get nervous about possibly kinda sorta dating someone. All the ordinary, mundane shit people took for granted. The novelty of it would never get old.

Ed didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, though, and he certainly wasn’t digging for the gritty details of Al’s love life, so he backed off in favor of an easier topic.

“So, I see Mei is as bossy as ever.”

Visibly relieved at the change, Al handed off one of the shovels. “She’s not that bad. She’s a perfectionist, like you.” He chuckled at Ed’s frown. “Oh, come on. You like her, just admit it.”

“Like a hole in my head,” Ed quipped.

“Don’t be dramatic, Brother. If you didn’t, you would’ve never offered to help.”

“Something I’m regretting right about now.” Ed moved to the spot they’d marked off and jerked his chin towards the rest of their materials. “I don’t understand all this Feng Shui shit. Trees and plants grow out of the ground. You’d think that would enhance their earth element or whatever.”

“That’s just the way it works.” With a shrug, Al dug his shovel into one of the other three spots for the pergola’s posts. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to study up.”

“Smart ass.”

Al stuck out his tongue. “Anyway, this is the first proper siheyuan the Chang Clan has ever had. They’ve been pushed aside and ignored for so long. They deserve to have it exactly how they want.”

Pausing, Ed folded his hands over the shovel’s handle and looked around. The entire area was a flurry of activity, people hurrying about, focused on their tasks. One group was setting the front gates and carving the twin ornamental pillars outside them into lions. Another was working on the interiors of the nine buildings that comprised the siheyuan. Still another was laying glazed tiles on the roofs and painting decorative scrollwork beneath the many gables and eaves.

A smaller group, one that included Ed and Al, had taken on the neiyuan, a sprawling inner courtyard that lay in the center of the siheyuan. Divided into four sections, each plot was being designed in a different style based on its associated Feng Shui elements. A Zen garden in the northeast for earth; a welcoming place for visitors filled with wind chimes and an assortment of white and gray plants in the northwest for metal; an elaborate water feature accented with gold bells and a sturdy redwood in the southeast for wood; the covered sitting area with its cherry blossom tree and newly added fire pit in the southwest for earth.

All in all, the siheyuan was a huge undertaking that marked the turning point of the Chang Clan, and every one of its members had banded together to see it done. Even Ling had sent help from the Imperial Capital as a gesture of goodwill. Al had volunteered, of course. Technically, Ed had too, but _drafted_ sounded so much better when Mei started nagging. He enjoyed it, though. It was a privilege to be part of such a historic ordeal.

Ed and Al finished digging the holes. Then they mixed and poured concrete, set the posts for the pergola, and mounted the cross braces to keep them from warping. They’d smoothed out a gravel base over the rest of the plot and were halfway through arranging the flagstones when a bell rang near the southern end of the siheyuan.

Using his sleeve to wipe the sweat off his brow, Ed glanced up to see the sun had dipped below the roofline. The other clan members were setting aside their tools and steadily making their way through the series of floral-pendant doors towards the mostly finished daozuofang for dinner.

“Quitting time,” Al said as he brushed his bangs to one side, accidentally leaving a smear of dirt across his forehead in the process. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

Ed hesitated. “Why don’t you head on without me? I’m just going to finish up these flagstones.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yeah, but it can wait,” Ed said, hefting the closest slab into place.

“Since when do you ever wait for food?” Smiling, Al stood and dusted his hands off on his pants. “The stones will still be here tomorrow, Brother. They’re not going anywhere.”

“I know, but if I finish this today, we can jump straight into the pergola tomorrow.”

Al cast a longing look towards the daozuofang, then sighed. “Fine,” he said, kneeling once more. “Let me get the—”

“Whoa, hold on.” Ed lunged forward to yank the smaller flagstone out of Al’s hands. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh, working on the courtyard. Didn’t we already go over this with Mei?”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Ed grouched. “I said _I’m_ going to finish this. Me. Singular. As in, not you.”

“As if I’d make you do this all by yourself.” Al reached for the flagstone, and Ed swatted his hand away. “Brother…”

When he tried again, Ed transferred it behind his back. “You’re not _making_ me do anything. I want to.”

“And I want to help you.”

“No, what you want is to call it a day,” Ed maintained. “I know you’re tired, Al. Go eat. Rest. Stare at Mei and call it studying.”

Al frowned, unconvinced. “I don’t know…”

“Well, lucky for you, I do.” They couldn’t see the daozuofang’s open windows over the interior wall, but the conversations and laughter carried, along with the smell of several different dishes. “Seriously, would you just go before the food gets cold?”

“What are you going to eat?”

“I’m a scavenger, I’ll scrounge up something.”

“But it’s going to be dark soon.”

“Good thing someone invented light bulbs two hundred years ago.”

“What about—”

“ _Al_ ,” Ed groaned, shoving his shoulder good-naturedly but hard enough that Al had to catch himself with one hand to keep from falling backwards. “Fucking get out of here already.”

A furrow still marred Al’s forehead, but his resolve was wavering. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes. If you wait any longer, Mei’s gonna come drag you in there herself, and I don’t need her stopping to nitpick over the spacing between the flagstones or whatever other ridiculous bullshit she notices.”

Al huffed a laugh. “Okay, okay, I’ll go. But only to keep Mei off your back.”

“Thank god,” Ed said, then flashed a reassuring grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll be done before you know it. This won’t take long.”

Ed listened to Al cross the courtyard as he resumed working on the flagstones, fitting the jagged slabs together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. After a minute, he glanced back to make sure he was alone. Only then did he let out a shaky breath. But that was all he allowed. One moment to gather himself before picking up the next flagstone with a single-minded focus.

* * *

Ed carried the stones into the siheyuan one by one and dropped them beside their plot in the courtyard. Each one was a misshapen lump, hewn from a quarry outside the city by members of the clan over the past couple days on Mei’s orders. Their help had saved him a lot of time, but he still had the unfortunate task of shaping them into usable bricks for the eventual fire pit.

“This would be so much easier with alchemy,” Ed said as he chipped away a section of stone.

Al didn’t even look up from where he was assembling a bench. “Every clan builds their siheyuan from the ground up with their own hands. It’s tradition, kind of like a rite of passage. Using alchemy would cheapen the importance of this for them.”

“The Xingese aren’t alone there.” Of all the countries Ed had been to, Amestris was the only one that viewed alchemy as a cornerstone. Others let it compliment their way of life rather than define it, and even before losing the ability to use alchemy, Ed would’ve agreed. There was something to be said for hard work. “Did I ever tell you about the wells I helped dig in Aerugo?”

“No, but you told me how you fell in one.”

“Pushed,” Ed corrected. “I was pushed. That was their way of thanking me after we finished the first well. Said their water was the only thing clean enough to wash off the last of the Amestrian stink.”

Al flashed him a smile. “I thought you smelled especially nice when you got here.”

“Very funny.” With a deadpan look, Ed set aside the brick and reached for the next unformed stone. “Anyway, we must have dug close to twenty wells while I was there. No alchemy, no machines. So the point is that I’m not complaining. I get it.”

“I know, Brother. Alchemy _would_ be more convenient, though,” Al admitted, showing off his left thumb. The end of the fingernail peeking out from beneath the bandage was a deep purple from too many misses with the hammer.

Ed waved his chisel at the rest of the siheyuan. “Little transmutation and this baby would be finished in no time.”

Cocking his head, Al sized up the rest of the courtyard, the multiple walls and gates, the nine elaborate buildings. “I think we have different meanings of the word little.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a relative term. Trust me, I would know.”

“It is more satisfying, doing it yourself. I’ll give them that,” Al said as he leaned back to pat one of the posts for the pergola they’d completed a couple days before. “And I don’t think we did too badly.”

Ed hummed in agreement. “Turned out pretty sweet if you ask me.”

A couple men pushing carts loaded down with scrap materials along the courtyard’s outer path stopped to say something. Ed hadn’t learned enough Xingese to follow the clipped, quick-paced dialect, but he did pick up on a few words. _Night_ , _challenge_ , something that sounded like _lose_. It would’ve been sketchy if not for the way Al threw back his head and laughed. He waited until there was a momentary lull in the conversation to turn to Al.

“Care to share with the class?” he asked.

Al jerked his chin towards one of the men. “Wu here thinks he can beat us at a game of Dou Dizhu. Apparently, we have a bit of a reputation after that string of wins the other night.” Wu added something else, and Al chuckled. “The term _dirty cheaters_ has been used.”

With a flippant snort, Ed returned to the stone. “Tell him only losers complain about cheating.”

Wu’s companion, a man with a trimmed beard and topknot, smirked and rattled off a response. “Tielin says it was beginner’s luck and that we wouldn’t do so well against someone who… hadn’t already had too much to drink,” Al translated.

“You don’t have to censor him, Al. My virgin ears can handle it.” Ed might not know much Xingese, but he’d made it a point to learn how to swear first, and he could infer the rest. “Liu was drunk off his ass.”

“I’m hardly worried about your ears.”

“Still,” Ed continued, “I don’t see how Liu not being able to hold his liquor was our fault.”

Putting away his tools, Al passed on the message. “Wu thinks we took advantage of the situation.”

“Come on, he really can’t complain about alcohol because I had just as much to drink. If we’re going to blame anyone, blame Liu’s mom. Maybe if she’d taught him how to count, he wouldn’t have got his ass handed to him.”

Al frowned. “I am _not_ going to insult Liu’s mother.”

“Ugh, fine,” Ed groaned, rephrasing it to something less offensive. “Then tell him there’s no such thing as beginner’s luck in Dou Dizhu. It’s all about counting the cards correctly.”

There was a telling silence after Tielin responded that didn’t bode well. Al’s fidgeting only made it worse. “He, um… he said… well, uh…”

“Just spit it out,” Ed prompted.

“He said that’s something only a cheating pipsqueak would say—”

“Who does he think he’s calling—”

“—but we’re welcome to try and prove them wrong,” Al finished in a rush, drowning out the rest of Ed’s tirade before he could really get going.

Nose still wrinkled in annoyance, Ed crossed his arms and weighed the pros and cons. Then he pinned Wu and Tielin with a challenging scowl. “Alright, they’re on.”

The meaning must have been clear because both Xingese men were grinning widely before Al could even begin to translate. They dipped their chins in acknowledgement, then pushed their carts off through the front gates. After they’d passed through the stone archways, Al turned to Ed.

“You’re really going to play?” he asked, expression oddly bright. Well, maybe not odd in general. Al was always a ray of fucking sunshine. Odd given the subject. It was just a game of cards.

“Why not? We apparently have to defend our reputation. Just come get me when you guys are ready to start.”

That brightness dulled somewhat. “Come… get you?”

“Yeah, I’m tired of working on these fucking stones,” Ed said, shooting a glare at the pile of still-unfinished rocks. “I’ll take a break for the game, but I’m gonna finish these today if it kills me.”

“Brother…”

“Come on, Al, don’t look at me like that. I only have these left. Trust me, it won’t take long.”

* * *

“I didn’t hear you come in last night,” Al said.

Ed placed the heavenly horse sculpture along the curved roof, made sure it was in line with the four statuettes that came before it, and began the careful process of securing it to the ridge line. “It was late. They wanted to leave the roof, but then we would’ve had to wait a whole extra day before mounting these, so I offered to finish by myself.”

“But… that was half the building. How long did it take you to lay all those tiles?”

“I don’t know, five hours. Maybe six.” Ed shrugged. “It wasn’t bad. I was in bed before two.”

A weighty silence settled between them. Ed did his best to ignore it as he finished affixing the sculpture and moved on to the spot where he’d mount the next. It wasn’t too difficult. He’d had a lot of practice lately.

“You’ve been working awfully hard on all this,” Al eventually said.

“I work hard on everything. Always have. That’s nothing new.”

“Harder than normal,” Al revised. The scaffolding rattled as he climbed the last few steps to sit on the edge of the roof. “This isn’t a race, you know. There’s no time limit.”

Ed closed one eye, peered down the ridge line, and twisted the auspicious seahorse sculpture into position. “It’s called drive.”

“That’s not quite the word I’d use. But at least you’re almost at a stopping point. Few more roof charms, then you’ll be able to join us for dinner.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ed kept his attention trained firmly on the work at hand. When he finally chanced a glance through his bangs, Al’s eyes had gone tight around the corners, mouth drawn in a thin line. It was the look he got when he was worried but trying not to show it.

“You’re not coming tonight either,” he surmised.

“It’s the statues.” Ed waved a hand towards the rest of the tiled rooftop. “There’s a total of eight ridge lines that need them, and I’ve only done five.”

“Good. That leaves some work for the people who are actually going to live here.”

“But the team has already moved on to the houzhaofang. They need to finish the plumbing before they can run the electrical, and they need to run the electrical before they can close up the walls,” Ed explained. “They don’t have time to come back to this now.”

Al fell silent once again, long enough for Ed to fidget. He wanted to get back to work, lose himself in the manual labor, the burn of his muscles, the fatigue. But turning away at this point would only make matters worse. Al would know. He always knew. So Ed forced himself to lay a hand casually on the next statue and muster up his best attempt at a disarming grin. Al just rolled his eyes.

“Will you at least be in before midnight?”

“For sure.” Three sections, twenty-seven statues. “It won’t take long. Four hours tops.”

“Okay, Brother,” Al said, relenting even though his brow was still pinched with doubt. “I’ll see you later.”

Ed flashed him a thumbs-up. “You got it.”

* * *

Dust eddied in the soft light from the trio of lamps dangling from the rooftop. Standing on the scaffolding’s platform, Ed blew some of it out of his face as he pressed a couple small, glass squares into the adhesive putty smeared across one wall of the waiyuan. He leaned back to take in the whole design, checked the illustration for what color came next, then dug through the nearby box in search of blue tiles.

“I should’ve known,” a voice suddenly said from behind him.

Ed turned to see a familiar figure all but hidden in the shadows beneath the flower-hung gate, one shoulder braced against the wall, arms crossed. “Al! Hey, can you tell me if the spacing is good? I’m pretty sure it is, but it’s hard to—”

“Four hours tops. That’s what you said,” Al interrupted firmly. “It’s been a long four hours.”

It was hard to know how long, exactly, he’d been at it. Time flew when he was focused on a task. Judging by the placement of the moon, it was well past midnight, which wasn’t unusual anymore. In fact, it was kinda the point. He just hadn’t expected Al to sacrifice his sleep, track him down, and call him out on it.

Ed rubbed the back of his neck as he turned back to the wall. “Sorry, Al. I was on my way in when I saw the mosaic. Figured I’d help them out a bit, then lost track of time. You know how it goes.”

“Brother, come down here.”

“Why? I can talk to you just fine from here,” Ed said, setting another couple tiles in place.

“Brother.”

“Alright, alright. Just give me a sec. I’m almost done with this bit. It won’t—”

There was a sharp clap, a flash of blue light, an electric buzz of energy. Then the wall rippled beneath Ed’s hands as its composition was rearranged into imitation glass tiles and the mosaic systematically notched itself into place.

“Take long,” Al said dryly once the alchemical reaction had faded away. “I know. I’ve heard that before.”

Ed stared at the elaborate depiction of two cranes standing in a pond dotted with lotus flowers beneath a tree, now complete. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yeah, I kind of think it was.”

“What about all that _alchemy would cheapen the importance of this for them_ business?” Ed mimicked.

Al wasn’t fazed in the least. “This is more important.”

“What is?”

“You. Now, will you come down here?”

A cold, apprehensive weight settled in Ed’s stomach. Al had always been the more levelheaded one out of the two of them, but he was just as stubborn, if not more so, and the look on his face as he pushed off the wall and began to cross the narrow courtyard didn’t bode well. Wherever this was headed, it couldn’t be good. Even still, Ed did his best to play it cool.

“Fine.” He returned the tiles to the box and scurried down the ladder. “But I don’t know what you’re all—”

“Where were you before you came to Xing?” Al asked curtly.

Ed was so surprised by the accusatory tone that he missed a rung and slid down the last third of the ladder in an ungainly mess. Al hadn’t spoken to him like that since… he couldn’t even remember when. Before the Promised Day. Before he’d gotten his body back. Somehow, seeing his stern expression was more intimidating than the armor.

“Briggs,” Ed said as he got his bearings. “I told you that when I got here.”

“And before that?”

“I went to visit Teacher.”

“And before that?”

“Aerugo.”

“And—”

“ _Al_ ,” Ed interrupted. He closed the distance between them to clasp his brother’s shoulders. “I know you’re trying to make a point, but maybe you should just get to it already.”

As much as he didn’t want to get into… whatever this was, the idea of beating around the bush was even less appealing. Avoidance had never sat well with him. Best to just get it over with. Like ripping off a bandage. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would clear the uneasy tension that had been growing between them the past few days.

“You need to rest,” Al said.

“Rest,” he repeated slowly, blinking.

“Yes. You’ve been travelling nonstop. I think it’s time you take a break.”

Ed managed a light chuckle. “We’ve been going nonstop our whole lives. This isn’t anything new.”

“It is, Brother. You’re constantly on the move, trying to stay busy. We worked hard before, but this is different. It’s like you’re desperate, like you can’t stand to _not_ be focused on something.”

“Well, you know what they say about idle hands.”

“You’re burning the candle at both ends,” Al said, more insistent this time. He shrugged Ed’s hands off his shoulders and crossed his arms again. “Not even you can keep this up. When was the last time you slept?”

Ed swallowed thickly. “Last night. I told you goodnight when I came in, remember?”

“How _long_ did you sleep?”

“I don’t know. Normal amount.”

“Brother.”

Ed’s jaw worked over itself for a moment, then he looked away. “Few hours. Three, maybe four.” Even that was a generous estimate. Tossing and turning in bed didn’t count as sleeping.

From the corner of his eye, he could just make out the way Al’s expression twisted up. Not in anger or frustration, but genuine worry. It made a healthy dose of guilt settle right alongside the cold dread still in his stomach. He didn’t want to talk about this, _couldn’t_ —

“And how long has this been going on?” Al asked softly.

But he’d have to. At least to an extent because there was no way Al was going to let this go. Ed had pushed his luck to the limit, and now he had to face the consequences. Thing was, the whole discussion could’ve been avoided altogether if he’d just given in, called it quits at last light same as everyone else, ate with them, visited with them, went to bed with them. He knew that. _Had_ known it. But his bedroom was too empty and the night was too long and he had too many thoughts to fill it with, enough to drive him fucking crazy.

“A while now,” Ed admitted with a resigned exhale. He didn’t have to put an exact time on it. Al would be able to read between the lines and discern the rest. “I keep having nightmares. Sometimes it’s easier to just avoid them.”

Damn things. The more he slowed down, the worse they got. Fucking eerie ass kaleidoscope combinations of Winry, Nina, and Mom. All his biggest failures wrapped up into one heart-stuttering nightmare that plagued him night after night, left him shaking and sweating when he finally managed to drag himself back to wakefulness. The only thing that helped was running himself so ragged he more or less collapsed into bed, too exhausted to dream vividly, but even then, the feeling remained, unsettling impressions that haunted him. It was a never-ending cycle.

“It’s been the same with meals, hasn’t it? I’ve barely seen you eat anything since you got here, and you’ve clearly lost weight. Even Mei said something about it.”

Fuck, _Mei_ was concerned?

“Look, Al, it’s just a thing.” Ed shoved his hands into his pockets and lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I’m working through it. I’ll be fine.”

A breeze gusted over the wall, stirring the ends of Ed’s ponytail. He studiously watched a cat balance its way along the top edge of the siheyuan’s outer wall and noticed Al turn to do the same after a moment. It was a testament to how concerned he was that he didn’t rush over or try to call it closer, just stood there, silent and still.

The tabby disappeared behind the roofline, and Ed glanced up to the sky, remembered the month he and Al had spent on Yock Island, all those nights of staring up at the same stars. Just the two of them. For so long, it had been just the two of them. What happened to the days of being each other’s confidante? When had awkward silences become their norm? Which were obviously questions that didn’t need answering because they both knew, but the change between then and now still made something ache deep down in Ed’s chest.

“It’s hard for me too, you know,” Al said quietly. “It’s been three months, and it still doesn’t feel real.”

Ed’s swallow stuck in his throat. “Yeah.”

“Hey.” Leaning forward, Al tried to catch his eye. There it was again, that fucking discernment. Ed could see it coming a mile away. “It’s nothing you did, Brother. You know that, right? There was nothing you could’ve done.”

But god, there was. There _was_ , and for all Al could read his tone and his body language and the unspoken words in between, he didn’t know shit about what really happened. Ed had fucked up. He’d fucked up, and now he could barely tell the difference between the nightmares and reality because every fucking minute of every fucking day was like a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from. And there was no end to it. What was done was done. This was all that was left, and it was all his fucking—

“Yeah,” Ed said again. “I know.”

Maybe it _would_ be easier if he talked about it. Ed considered coming clean, laying the truth out there instead of bottling it up inside like some dirty secret. Then he brushed the idea aside just as quickly. He couldn’t do that to Al. Refused to burden him that way. After all the trouble he’d caused in their lives already, Ed would let the guilt eat him alive before passing any of it off onto Al. If that left him to suffer through it alone, so be it.

A brief image flashed through Ed’s mind, of Mustang sprawled out beneath him, brow furrowed, dark eyes sympathetic as he stroked the inside of Ed’s wrist—

No.

No, no, no.

One monumental fuck up was enough on that front. Ed wasn’t about to add emotional baggage to it. This was his cross to bear. There was no need to drag anyone else into the mix. He could deal with it on his own. He had to. There was no other option.

Al turned and clasped his shoulder. “It’ll get better. One day at a time.”

“One day at a time,” Ed repeated.

He didn’t know if it came across as genuine, but Al drew him closer nevertheless. “Come on,” he said, draping an arm over Ed’s shoulders and steering him towards the daozuofang. “Come eat. Please. Just a little bit. They had this bread pudding thing for dessert. I’ll heat up some of the leftovers for you.”

“See, this is why you ended up being allergic to cats.” Once they were in the kitchen, Ed bypassed a line of stools in favor of hopping up to sit on the countertop instead. “You’re too good. Karma had to hit you with something.”

“That’s not the way karma works, Brother.”

“Eh,” Ed said with a dismissive shrug. “Close enough.”

It didn’t make sense anyway. If karma was about the universe giving back what one puts into it, how the hell had he ended up with such an incredible little brother? Another lump lodged itself in his throat, this time one of fondness as he watched Al warm the dessert. Ed would never, not in a million fucking years, deserve him.

“A letter came today, by the way,” Al said, handing over the bowl. “From General Mustang.”

Shit.

Despite the way his stomach twisted up at the mere mention of Mustang, Ed shoveled in a spoonful of the pudding. “Oh?”

“He was wondering if I’d heard from you.”

“Let me guess,” Ed drawled. “He wants me to report in for some stupid mission.”

“Actually no, he didn’t say anything like that.” Al leaned back against the adjacent line of cabinets and crossed one ankle over the other. “It was hard to tell, but he seemed… concerned. I think he just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Of course Mustang wanted to know if he was okay. Ed hadn’t kept in touch nearly as well as he’d promised. As in, at all. Which wasn’t really out of the norm considering that kind of behavior had been his status quo for pretty much his entire employ with the State, but Mustang was probably wondering if Ed ever planned to come back, if what happened between them in Resembool had run him off for good.

And something about that kind of… hit home.

In a hard way. In a real way.

In a _what the fuck have you been doing, Ed?_ way.

“Do you want me to respond? Or would you rather do it yourself?”

Ed blinked back to attention to find Al watching him carefully. “Neither,” he said, mind made up. “I’m gonna head back to East City soon anyway. After we’re done with the siheyuan and all that.”

Nodding, Al offered a small, encouraging smile. “I think that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, Mustang’s probably buried under a pile of paperwork by now and is just too proud to admit he needs help finding his way out.”

Ed polished off the rest of the bread pudding in one heaping mouthful. It was easier to play off the decision to go back than admit it was probably a good thing. Not that he necessarily _wanted_ to think about Winry. Or face Mustang, for that matter. But he’d never been one to run away from his problems, and he was tired of doing so now.

“I’m sure,” Al deadpanned, then held out a hand for Ed’s empty bowl and moved over to the sink so he could wash it. “You should at least let the General know you’re coming.”

“Nah. If he really is worried, busting into his fancy ass office unannounced will be the most reassuring thing I can do.”

Al snorted. “It probably says something that you’re right about that. Just try not to kick the door so hard you damage the wall this time.”

Grabbing a nearby towel, Ed slid off the counter and began drying the bowl. “You know me,” he said with a grin of his own that fell at least marginally closer to genuine. “No promises.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's left comments or kudos so far <3 they're much appreciated!
> 
> On another note, this chapter gave me a good bit of trouble. But I'm tired of wracking my brain over it, so I'm just gonna throw it out here and hope it's not that bad and is more me having looked at it too long ^^;

Ed stood in the empty hallway.

It was well past the end of the workday, edging on nine o’clock by that point, so it had been a toss-up whether anyone would still be around. Depended if any serious shit had gone down recently or how much Mustang had put off paperwork during the week. He hadn’t heard anything through the grapevine, but as he stared unseeingly at the closed door to Mustang’s office, he could make out faint traces of conversation coming from inside, so something must have happened to keep them around this late on a Friday night.

Leaning closer, Ed pressed his ear to the door.

There was Breda’s good-natured heckling; Fuery’s quiet attempts to focus the team’s attention back on work so they could finish up and leave for the weekend; a pointed silence that was probably Hawkeye giving a look of her own that spoke louder than words; rustling papers; then, Havoc’s softer but no less insistent claims of _I’m ready to tie the knot, it’s not too soon when you know it’s right_.

Funny… Ed had forgotten they were even dating. When had Havoc finally worked up the nerve to ask Rebecca on a date? Eight months ago? Or was it nine? And things were apparently going well enough that Havoc was contemplating marriage. Wild. Add to that Al and Mei’s burgeoning romance, and it was strange to remember the rest of the world kept spinning even when his had ground to a stagnant halt.

Ed lifted one hand to knock, thought about the potential barrage of sympathetic looks and obligatory condolences the change might spur, and lowered it.

Then he hauled back and kicked in the door.

“Evening, losers, I’m— _holy shit, wait, don’t shoot_!”

Faced with the business end of a .45, Ed instinctively dropped his suitcase and ducked behind his hands. No shot rang out, but he was still slow to lower his arms. He ended up gaping after Major Hawkeye who had already continued on towards the filing cabinet, calmly holstering her pistol as she went, as if threatening Ed with it at point-blank range was just another part of the standard workday.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed.

Seated at the table in the middle of the room, Havoc simply raised a hand. “Hey there, boss. Long time no see.”

“Welcome back,” Fuery added with a smile.

“Yeah, some fucking welcome,” Ed grumbled, straightening. “Is this how we’re greeting people now? By threatening to blow their heads off?”

Breda chuckled. “We’ve found it makes for less paperwork. Whoever showed up runs off with theirs and others are discouraged from bringing more. Really, it’s a win-win.”

“You’ve all officially spent too much time working for Mustang.” Bunch of fucking lunatics. Which didn’t really say much for Ed considering he’d chosen to return instead of giving the military the finger and skipping out post-Promised Day, but that was beside the point. “If I wanted this kind of reception, I would’ve stayed at fucking Briggs. At least I know to expect it there.”

“Sorry, Edward,” Hawkeye said. She stopped filing long enough to offer a faint smile that was the equivalent of an apologetic hug. “Everyone is on high alert until the loyalist case is closed.”

Ed perked up. “That shit’s still going on?”

The case had cropped up a week or so before Ed had left for Resembool. Another Scar-type situation, only this time the targets were anyone who’d played an active role in bringing down the Bradley regime and the method of execution was a quick, clean slice across the jugular. All the signs pointed to it being someone on the inside, but the team hadn’t had much luck by the time Ed left, just a handful of vague suspicions and false leads.

“Unfortunately so,” Hawkeye said, closing and locking the filing cabinet. “We’ve made some progress, but whoever’s heading it is still at large.”

“So you’ve arrested someone,” Ed surmised. “Who?”

“Second Lieutenant Richard Cordova.”

“No kidding? Ha, I knew it! I fucking knew it!” Ed nudged his suitcase into the office so he could kick the door shut behind him. “Good ol’ Dickie. Didn’t I call it? Damn, I’m good.”

Breda groaned. “You would waltz back in here acting like you knew the entire time.”

“I did!” Ed insisted.

“You sure?” Havoc rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “Sounds more like a lucky guess to me.”

“Fuck you, Havoc. I told you guys to look into him from the get go.”

Folding one arm on the table, Breda pinned Ed with a skeptical look. “Maybe so. But how could you _possibly_ have known Cordova was involved?”

“We figured it was an inside job,” Ed said as he crossed the room to flop into his chair. He knew it was his because he’d transmuted the legs to a more normal height and then carved his initials into the seat for good measure years ago. “It only made sense for someone in Investigations to know exactly how to slip beneath their own radar.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you thought it was Cordova, specifically.”

Ed shrugged. “He’s a shifty guy.”

“How can you say that?” Fuery asked. “He was a major player in Central’s reorganization after the coup.”

“Doesn’t make him any less shifty. That just means he knows how to put on a good face like all the rest of them.”

Bracing one foot against the table, Ed balanced the chair on its back legs and used an exaggerated stretch to disguise a glance at the empty doorway leading to Mustang’s inner office. He figured Mustang would’ve shown up by now. Unless he was already gone for the day, but the odds of that were slim to none. If the team was busting their balls on something, Mustang always… maybe not busted his balls, but stuck around for moral support.

“So what was the connection?” Ed asked.

Everyone who’d even considered carrying on Bradley’s ideals had been ousted in the year following the Promised Day. Why would someone be stirring up old shit now when things had been going so smoothly? Or maybe that was the point. Whoever it was had been waiting for others to let their guard down.

“Apparently, General Raven and his wife were Cordova’s foster parents when he was young,” Hawkeye explained.

“Well, well, well, whaddaya know.” Ed cast an accusatory glare around the table. “Seems like _someone_ missed that tidbit of information.”

Breda snorted. “Was it you, seeing how you were the first one to check him out?”

“No one missed anything,” Hawkeye continued before Ed could do more than chunk a rubber band ball at Breda. “Confidentiality laws kept that information out of our files. Cordova eventually moved homes, but he remained close with Raven even after he was out of the system.”

Drumming his fingers on the chair’s armrest, Ed frowned. “So he joined this witch hunt to get revenge for Raven’s death.”

“Seems so.”

“But the head honcho’s still kicking,” Breda said.

“And Cordova isn’t talking,” Fuery added.

“So barging into the office like you’re getting ready to attack us is likely to earn you a swift bullet,” Havoc concluded with a grin, aiming a finger gun his way.

Ed jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Ya think? Wow, I never would’ve guessed.”

It had been a while, but Ed tried to remember where he’d left off in the case. Cordova had always rubbed him the wrong way. Nothing personal, there’d just been something… off about him. It was reassuring to know his instincts had been on the mark even with the veritable shit storm his personal life had become. Now he just had to find whatever worthless bastard was pulling the strings before anyone else got killed.

“At least I’ll be able to help you guys now,” Ed said. “Maybe we can actually close this case.”

“You sound pretty cocky, boss.”

“If the shoe fits.” Although it wasn’t so much cocky as confident. Also, Ed liked giving the rest of the team shit. Fuck knew he’d been on the receiving end enough times over the years. “You just don’t want to admit you wouldn’t get anything done without me. And the major,” he added after a sideways glance at Hawkeye because… well, obviously.

“I’ll give you that.” Havoc elbowed Breda with a conspiratorial wink. “Our workdays are always a lot _shorter_ when you’re around to help.”

Something pinged in Ed’s head. A stray neuron misfiring or the crackle of his icy glare or the sound of his teeth fucking grinding together. He went dangerously still, but Breda was already leaning back in the chair, fingers laced behind his head.

“Not to mention whatever situations come up seem _smaller_ than they used to,” he said.

“Miniature.”

“Tiny.”

“Virtually microscopic.”

Yeah, that was definitely his teeth grinding. So much for his molars.

“Did it take you two ingrates four months to come up with that?” Ed growled, making a concentrated effort to relax his jaw before he cracked a cuspid and lost the ability to tear into steak. “No wonder you haven’t closed the case yet.”

“We just didn’t want your valuable input to be _overlooked_ , boss.”

“You’re an integral part of the team,” Breda said. “We’d never stoop so _low_ as to exclude you.”

“Mother _fucker_ —”

Ed let the chair fall forward, shot to his feet, and slammed his hands down on the table, which caused a precariously balanced file organizer to tip over the edge and shatter on the floor, and was just revving up to a full-blown, indignant rant because he’d grown damn it, he _had_ , like a full one and three-eighths inches, he practically _towered_ over Fuery now and nobody ever ragged on _him_ , when he noticed a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye and the words died in his throat.

Mustang stood in the doorway to his inner office, silently watching the scene unfold. That self-satisfied, ever-present smirk was firmly in place, but a certain guardedness filtered into his gaze when he realized Ed had noticed him. Regardless, he dipped his chin.

“Fullmetal.”

Ed swallowed. “General,” he said in return.

Mustang held his gaze for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a couple seconds before casting a pointed look first to the broken file organizer, then to the wall past Ed. “I thought I recognized the dulcet sounds of your particular brand of destruction. You knocked another hole in the plaster.”

Ed’s nose wrinkled, whatever weird moment that had passed between them broken. “You’re welcome. Whoever repaired it did a shitty job anyway.”

“ _I_ repaired it.”

“Then you’re doubly welcome because you obviously need the practice,” Ed said. “I can see the residual transmutation marks from here.”

In all honesty, the marks really weren’t _that_ bad, but he’d already committed to the insult so… and it definitely felt safer to fall back on old habits considering his guts had twisted themselves up into knots the minute he’d locked eyes with Mustang across the room… and it was good to keep up the pretense. No, not pretense. Reality. This wasn’t some fucking show they put on.

Right?

Right.

This was what they were, what they’d always been. Just two people who could barely have a conversation without it dissolving into a competition of snarky, backhanded remarks.

Bickering was good.

Bickering was normal.

Mustang huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. “It’s nice to know some things never change.”

Case in point.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed grumbled even as he allowed himself a brief moment of relief.

He knew busting into the office would do the trick. Routine always bred comfort. The rest of the team wasn’t even acting differently. No coddling or walking on eggshells; no looking at him like he was some bleeding, wounded invalid. He needed to remember to start off with a big, fat _I fucking told you so_ next time he and Al talked.

Although…

Ed’s eyes narrowed as Mustang continued to hold his gaze unflinchingly. Was that supposed to be some kind of underhanded reference? An allusion to all the things that _had_ changed since the last time he’d been here? Would Mustang really go there?

God, what Ed wouldn’t give to be able to scrub the memories from his brain. This was exactly what he’d been worried about. Always wondering if there was more to what Mustang said than met the eye or reading into things too deeply. Fucking _remembering_ at all. It was going to drive him crazy.

“So I take it you’re back for good?” Havoc asked.

Thankful for something else to focus on, Ed turned away from Mustang and settled into his chair once again. “Far as I know.”

“And you missed us so much you came straight here without even dropping your luggage off first.” Breda laid a hand over his heart. “We’re touched.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ed shot back. “The trains were behind schedule so I got into town late—”

Lie.

“—and I wanted to make sure no one fucked with any of my stuff while I was gone—”

Another lie.

“—and I… uh… may not have had anywhere else to go just yet.”

Somewhat less of a lie.

“Turns out they terminate your lease if you don’t pay rent for four months,” Ed finished, avoiding everyone’s eyes as he absently poked at the edge of the table.

Changed locks and an empty apartment wasn’t exactly what he’d been planning to return to, but keeping up with the payments had just… gotten away from him while he’d been gone. Now he had to wait until tomorrow to see if management would let him back pay the rent owed and reinstate the lease. If not, he’d have to figure out where they’d stashed all his stuff before finding a new place. Ed didn’t even know why he’d been surprised. It was the cherry on top of a so far less-than-stellar year.

“Edward,” Hawkeye began, but Ed was already prepared.

“I _know_ , I just—” Really didn’t want to get into the reason behind it. At all. They’d avoided everything so far. It would be a shame to ruin that track record now. “It’s not a big deal. I’m going to sort everything out tomorrow.”

“But where are you staying tonight?” Fuery asked as he starting packing away his equipment.

“One of the military hotels, I guess.” It wasn’t as easy as when he’d had a bottomless research account with the State, but he hadn’t completely depleted his funds. He had enough cenz left for that. Maybe. Hopefully. “I can swing a couple nights.”

Fuery gave Ed the exact type of sympathetic look he’d been hoping to avoid, but at least it was only tangentially related to the root cause. “That’s such a waste. I’d offer to let you sleep at my place, but I’m still in the dorms.”

“A friend is staying with me this weekend,” Hawkeye said by way of explanation when Fuery turned to her, which sucked because Ed had been halfway hoping she’d offer. Her couch was a glorified loveseat, so every time he stayed there, he had to curl his legs up to keep them from hanging off the end. It was awesome.

“Me too.” Breda jerked his head towards Havoc. “This guy. At least until he closes on his new place with Rebecca. You’re welcome to crash on the floor, though, if you want.”

“No, that’s okay,” Ed said. “Don’t worry about it. A hotel’s fine. It won’t take long, just—”

“Wait a minute…” Havoc took the cigarette out of his mouth and pointed it over Ed’s head. “Chief, don’t you have a spare bedroom at your place?”

Something cold and mildly unsettling that might have been the questionable sandwich he’d picked up from a Cretan food truck on the way to the office but was probably just plain old apprehension squirmed around in Ed’s stomach. His personal sense of time slowed to an unbearable crawl as he swallowed and looked over his shoulder to where Mustang stood in the doorway.

“I do,” he said, and for once, Ed was grateful for that incomparable poker face. Mustang wasn’t giving anything away.

Problem was, this had quickly and unexpectedly and unwantedly become a prime example of the _how the hell am I supposed to act now?_ dilemma. Ed cast about the recesses of his memory for an acceptable reaction. What would he have done before? Turn Mustang down? Scoff and treat it as a joke? Grudgingly accept? Politely accept? Shit, he didn’t know. A single night of touching someone’s dick shouldn’t cause so many problems.

“Well, there you go!” Havoc said when no one immediately objected. “Problem solved.”

Ed’s teeth clenched.

Fuck.

* * *

What little winter East City enjoyed usually disappeared by early March, but this year it managed to cling to the evenings well into April. There was an undeniable chill in the air as they strolled out of Eastern Command. Shrugging his shoulders up around his ears, Ed waved goodbye to the rest of the team before heading off down the sidewalk with Mustang.

A jacket would’ve been nice right about then. If not to ward off the cold, then to provide a makeshift shield for the awkwardness simmering in the silence between them. He could’ve withdrawn behind the popped collar, disguised the tension he felt in his shoulders beneath the folds of fabric. But there’d been little need for a jacket in Xing – he didn’t even know if they _had_ a winter, or if it was just one endless summer that varied slightly between miserable as fuck and barely fucking tolerable – which meant it had been confiscated from his apartment along with the rest of his belongings.

“Ugh,” Ed groaned, slouching against the building as soon as he and Mustang had rounded a corner and were out of sight. “Glad that’s over.”

It took a couple steps for Mustang to notice he’d stopped. When he did, he turned and arched a brow. “I’m sorry?”

“I can’t think of any immediate thing you did wrong, but knowing you, something’s bound to come up, so I’m gonna accept that apology anyway and save it for future use.”

“That’s not what—”

“Too late, Mustang. No take backs.” Pushing off the wall, Ed started back the way they’d come. “Until Monday, then.”

Some… not small but similar to it part of Ed’s brain hoped that would be it. That he’d be able to spout off that little farewell and disappear down the street without looking back. Whatever residual tension there was would burn off over the weekend, they’d both show up to work Monday morning completely normal, and life would continue on as it had for the past two years.

It was a good thing Ed had never taken up gambling because luck had never been on his side. He hadn’t even made it the approximately five steps to the corner of the building before Mustang was calling after him.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

Ed frowned. “Did the major make you work too hard this week or something? I’m gonna find a hotel. Obviously.” Or maybe double back and hijack one of the couches from Mustang’s office.

“Why?”

“What do you mean _why_? Because it’s too cold to camp out on the streets, that’s why.”

“I have the distinct impression I missed some crucial exchange between the office and here,” Mustang said slowly. “I thought you were going to stay at my house.”

Ed felt like he was being played, and defensiveness welled up fast and strong and instinctive. “Fucking hell, Mustang, you can drop the act already. There’s no one around anymore.” However, the slight furrow between Mustang’s brows only deepened. Something about it struck a chord, and Ed mentally backtracked at the realization that Mustang’s confusion, unlikely as it seemed, could only be genuine. “You’re… wait, were you being serious?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Mustang asked with a wry smile.

“No. I mean… maybe? You didn’t offer earlier. Everyone else at least had an excuse, but you didn’t say anything. It just didn’t seem like you wanted me to stay.”

“Fullmetal—”

“Which is fine, I completely understand. It’s not, like, the end of the world or anything.”

“Ed—”

“Really, it’s better if I don’t. I’ll accidentally eat all your food in the middle of the night, and my hair will clog up the shower drain. Do you have wood floors? Because the automail is loud as fuck when I’m—”

“ _Edward_.”

“What?” Ed grouched. “For fuck’s sake, if you’re going to say something, just say it.”

Mustang leveled Ed with a deadpan look, then relaxed as one corner of his mouth twitched. “How does one accidentally eat food?”

“I get hungry when I research, and I research a lot at night.” He was also still battling the occasional nightmare, but he wasn't about to bring that up. “It just happens.”

“I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m honestly not.” Mustang stepped back to allow a couple to shuffle past. Once they were out of earshot, he pocketed his hands and said, “For the record, I didn’t offer because I knew my house was the most feasible option. The last thing I wanted was to put you on the spot in front of the team. I didn’t want you to feel pressured into accepting.”

Ed blinked. “Oh. Well. That…” Wasn’t what he’d expected. Gathering his thoughts, Ed lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Okay. It’s whatever. Not a big deal either way, I guess. It’s just for a couple nights.”

“Only if you’re sure.”

“Trust me,” Ed said. “If I was dead-set against it, you’d know.”

“That I do know,” Mustang agreed. He gestured down the sidewalk. “In that case…”

Ed hadn’t been lying. It really wasn’t that big of a deal. He needed a place to crash, and in the end, a bed was a bed. The fact that it was Mustang’s didn’t change anything. It wasn’t like they were going to jump each other’s bones the minute they walked through the door. Or ever. That wasn’t an option. Should’ve never _been_ an option. Was a big fucking Mistake with a capital M. Which was why there was no need to worry because they were on the same page and it wouldn’t happen again.

This was temporary. Just a place to rest his head until he got the rest of his shit together. Nothing strange. Zilch. Nada. Absolutely zero weirdness.

Ed glanced at Mustang out of the corner of his eye – took in the way the streetlamps highlighted the strong line of his jaw, remembered the way he’d run his nose along Ed’s after pressing in – and bit the inside of his cheek to hold in an aggravated sigh.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

But backing out now would be even weirder than going through with it, so Ed forced himself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, a man casually strolling to his own execution.

The moon was easing above the buildings when they finally reached Mustang’s townhouse. Two story, brick exterior, black shutters. There were even planter boxes complete with a variety of cascading ferns beneath the windows. It was disgustingly quaint and absolutely what Ed would’ve imagined for Mustang if he’d ever allowed himself the opportunity to think about it.

Trailing Mustang inside, Ed tried not to look too impressed as he scanned the foyer. “Nice digs. Not as”—he waved one hand indistinctly—“as I thought it would be.”

“Thank you, I try to keep the”—Mustang paused in the middle of hanging up his coat to wave a hand as well—“to a minimum these days. The living room is through there, the kitchen is down the hall, and the bedrooms are upstairs. Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Tea?”

“How about a reality check?”

“Brandy it is.”

Ed snorted but made his way into the living room. It was as nice as the exterior suggested, warm colors and clean lines, but something about it felt… off.

Pinako’s house was littered with automail parts and reference manuals, had more squeaky floorboards than not, and smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and machine oil. There were always at least three dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, and the furniture was as old as the house itself. Possibly older. Three generations and one automail-enhanced dog had worn the couch down to its sagging, weary springs.

Mustang’s, on the other hand, was too crisp and neat and fresh. Like it hadn’t been lived in. A house but not a home. If Mustang spent much time here, it didn’t show. It could’ve belonged to anyone. The one exception was a collage of picture frames decorating the far wall.

Dropping his suitcase beside the couch and flicking on a lamp, Ed went to study the pictures. 

There was one of an older woman dressed to the nines in pearls and a fur-lined shawl. She was smirking at the camera from behind a bar, elbow propped on the polished wood, one brow raised as if she already knew what you needed before you could even ask. A group of younger girls crowded in at the edges of the photo, waving.

There was one of Falman’s farewell party before he left for Briggs, several of Gracia and Elicia, and a couple of Mustang’s original team in East City. One even included a scowling, fifteen year old Ed slouching on one of the couches and a yet-to-be-restored Al trying to push Ed’s feet off the coffee table.

Ed moved on from one of Mustang holding Elicia on his shoulders, her face and hands pressed against the glass of the local aquarium as he pointed out a passing sea turtle, only to stop at a trio of pictures situated in the very center of the arrangement.

All three were of Mustang and Hughes.

The first had to be back from their days at the academy. There was no sign of Hughes’ wedding ring, Mustang didn’t have his pocket watch, and they were both wearing the military issue clothes synonymous with basic training. They looked impossibly young. Painfully naïve. Tragically optimistic.

The middle one was from Hughes’ wedding. Mustang had looped his arm around Hughes’ neck, and Hughes was giving a thumbs up to the camera. They were both smiling widely, not a trace of that typical smarminess. It was quite possibly the most genuine, natural smile Ed had ever seen from Mustang.

The last must have been during the war with Ishval. Mustang sat on a wooden crate with one arm resting on his bent leg while Hughes stood beside him. They were both in uniform, both holding beers, both smirking at the camera. It was probably taken not long after they arrived, before things got really bad. Their eyes weren’t haunted by the weight of what they’d seen and done yet.

“If you look closely, you can see the lipstick smudge on my chin in the picture from Hughes’ wedding,” Mustang said when he reentered the room. “The maid of honor accosted me.”

Ed turned to accept the proffered glass of brandy and arched a brow. “Accosted, huh?”

“Quite insistently. Shoved me into a closet and everything. There was nothing I could do about it.”

“Nothing you _wanted_ to do about it,” Ed corrected, then cocked his head. “Or you just wanted to do it.”

“Ah, yes.” Mustang nodded sagely as he took a sip. “The infamous _it_.”

Heat crept up Ed’s neck, and he whirled back around in an attempt to hide the blush. “Don’t be fucking stupid. I know it’s hard, but.” His attention drifted to the picture in question to see there really was a faint trace of red along Mustang’s jawline. “Did you at least let her down easy?”

“Would you believe me if I told you she was the one who wanted no strings attached?”

“I never believe anything you tell me.”

Ed promptly froze as memories bubbled to the surface: Mustang sitting at Pinako’s dining table, _if you believe the possibility exists for getting your bodies back, you should seek it out, keep moving, whatever it takes, even if the way ahead lies through a river of mud_ ; Mustang staring up at him from the hospital bed, _you’ll always have a spot on my team if you decide to come back, I’ll make sure of it_ ; Mustang fingering him, _god, you have no idea how incredible you look_.

Fucking _hell_ —

“I maintain my story regardless,” Mustang said, drawing Ed out of his thoughts and into a large swig of brandy. “This may come as a surprise, but I am, in fact, capable of traditional courtship. To be honest, I prefer it.”

“Uh huh, whatever. I was too distracted by how much of a dork you are in this one to notice anyway.” He jerked his chin towards a picture of Mustang and Hawkeye splashing in a river when they were kids.

“That was hardly my fault. The major got… enthusiastic when I asked her to cut my hair.”

“I was talking about your tighty whities,” Ed clarified with a wicked grin.

Adopting a lofty look of indifference, Mustang retreated to one of the armchairs. “Yes, well, everyone goes through an awkward stage.”

It wasn’t fair, though. Mustang’s awkward stage was still loads better than Ed’s most impressive stage. If he’d even had one of those. The few guys he’d slept with hadn’t had any trouble getting it up, so he couldn’t be that bad. Even Winry had shown interest in the months after the Promised Day, until she’d figured out which way he leaned, but following that line of thought smarted like a son of a bitch, so that was as far as he’d go.

Point was, Mustang would always be ridiculously handsome, and Ed would always be… well… yeah.

Ed scanned the pictures of Hughes again. This time, details jumped out that he’d missed the first go round. What he’d assumed to be a sepia toner added during development was actually a fine layer of smoke damage, and the very edges of each photo were scorched and blackened. 

“Looks like these have been through the wringer,” Ed said softly, touching one finger to the glass. “Looks a bit like fire.”

Mustang hummed. “I’ve learned not to wear my ignition gloves while drinking.”

Brows pinched, Ed turned just enough to meet Mustang’s eyes. With a thin-lipped smile, Mustang wiggled the bare fingers curled around his glass for emphasis. The gloves were poking out of his pocket, and Ed could just make out the bottom half of the array, vivid against the otherwise spotless material, like blood on snow.

He’d been too young at the time to fully understand Hughes and Mustang’s friendship. Back then, it had just seemed like a lot of pushy teasing and annoyed griping. He’d eventually gleaned a taste of it, during the final encounter with Envy, but it wasn’t until much later that he grasped just how deep it went.

“Is that why you don’t have more pictures?” Ed asked. He hated the idea of Mustang torching them in a drunken haze.

“No. No, one close call was enough to curb that habit.” Pursing his lips, Mustang cocked his head to one side. “Although I still consider myself at least partially to blame.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maes was always the one with the camera. He didn’t leave many opportunities to be the subject,” Mustang explained. “I knew there weren’t many pictures of him, but I never pushed him to be in more. It’s one of those things that don’t seem important in the moment. Not enough to make a fuss about, anyway. I always told myself there would be time for it later, that I’d tell him the next day, maybe buy a camera and take them myself, or give it to Elicia. Then, suddenly, there was no next time. I’d lost my chance. Now those three pictures are all I have left.”

Ed’s chest had gone impossibly tight. “That’s not your fault. That’s just…” Typical fucking human nature, always dragging their feet and putting things off.

“Maybe not,” Mustang relented. “But inaction can feel just as damning. It hurts just as much.”

Tipping his head back, Mustang drained the last of his brandy, and the echoing pain, the bone-deep ache of regret, the chanting _what if, what if, what if_ that had taken up residence in the back of Ed’s mind like a second heartbeat since the funeral had him doing the same. He understood how Mustang felt. He knew what it was like to look back and see nothing but missed opportunities. For all the ways they’d clashed over the years, it was strange to think how similar he and Mustang were when it came down to the nitty gritty.

“It gets…” Ed swallowed around the lingering burn of brandy. “I wouldn’t say easy, but easier. Missing people. It won’t always hurt like that.”

He’d experienced that with Mom and Nina. Even Hughes to some extent, now that he thought about it. He’d walked through the fire and come out on the other side alive and more or less whole.

So why was it so hard to believe his own words this time around?

Why did it feel like he was barely treading water when it came to Winry?

Mustang nodded as if that was exactly what he’d expected to hear. Then he blinked away the darkness that had gathered in his eyes, blew out a heavy breath, and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees. The smile he flashed was more reassuring than anything. There was only the barest hint of embarrassed self-deprecation.

“So much for a lighthearted welcome back.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ed said, taking pity and steering them back to familiar territory. It was the least he could do after that raw glimpse Mustang had given him. “You’ve always been a downer.”

Mustang chuckled. “Thank you, I consider it one of my more redeeming qualities.” Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he pushed to his feet. “On that note, I’ll let you get some rest. I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”

Day.

That was rich.

If only all the shit he’d been dealing with could be contained to a single day.

“Right,” Ed said instead because bitterness was toxic, and he wasn’t about to drag them back into that pit after they’d managed to skirt around it. He passed off his empty glass when Mustang held out a hand for it and retrieved his suitcase from beside the couch. “Give me a little while to track down my shit and sort out this mess. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Is this you tendering your resignation?”

“Not _that_ out of your hair, you ass.”

“So close,” Mustang said with a melodramatic sigh as he led the way back into the foyer.

Under different circumstances – _different circumstances_ being basically anything other than seeing each other for the first time since they’d stumbled, fumbled, and tumbled their way into Ed’s bed – he might’ve launched one of the fancy, useless throw pillows heaped on the couch at the back of Mustang’s head.

As it was, he settled for a parting, “Tough shit. You can’t get rid of me that easily,” before stomping off in the direction of the staircase.

That was how Ed planned to leave things. Even if Mustang’s annoying chuckle was bouncing around the space, he’d gotten the last word. But this was the second time now that Mustang had, for lack of a better word, helped him. The scales were tipped, and the weight was going to nag at Ed until it balanced out. Equivalent exchange.

“Hey,” Ed called, leaning over the railing halfway up the stairs. Mustang paused in the kitchen doorway. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t the best, not by a long shot, but it was a start.

The light backlit Mustang in a way that prevented Ed from making out his expression, but he could tell the way Mustang’s chin dipped in a shallow nod. “Of course.”

 _Of course_.

So simple. So matter-of-fact. 

_Of course_.

As if it was the most natural thing in the world for Mustang to offer up his spare room to the subordinate he’d well and thoroughly fucked a few months prior. Like he couldn’t imagine _not_ offering it. Like it wasn't even an issue.

 _Of course_.

No bullshit, and no games.

“Good night, Edward.”

Ed swallowed and gave a quick nod of his own. “Night,” he said, then continued upstairs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was turning out to be much longer than I expected, so I decided to split it up. Consider this part one of two. But the good news is that the next chapter is already halfway finished, so it should be up quickly.
> 
> Continued thanks to everyone who's left kudos or comments! You guys are the real MVP's <3

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.” There was a perfunctory knock, then the faint creak of squeaky hinges as the door opened. “Up and at ‘em. We’re burning daylight.”

Ed cracked a single bleary eye. It was still dark outside, not even a hint of sunlight beyond the curtains. “Hnngrggh,” he groaned and resolutely closed his eye again. “Burning daylight, my ass. What time is it?”

“Five o’clock. Seven after, to be exact.”

“What the fuck, Mustang? Who wakes up at fucking five on a Sunday morning?”

“I’m surprised,” Mustang said, bypassing the question. “You never struck me as the type to cherish beauty sleep.”

“And you never struck me as the religious type, which is the only reason anyone in their right god damn mind would be awake right now,” Ed shot back, although it was technically early for even the god-fearing. Grumbling under his breath, he slammed his fist into the middle of the pillow and smushed his face into the dent. “The only way I’m up at five in the morning is if I didn’t sleep the night before.”

It was about time for the other shoe to drop. Mustang had been a surprisingly good housemate so far. No loud noises, no awkward references to the Big Mistake, no smartass quips. Or at least not as many. Most of those were saved up to use at the office. He hadn’t even blinked when Ed’s old landlord had repeatedly denied the request to get back his apartment, just reaffirmed that his spare bedroom was open for as long as Ed needed or wanted it.

But while Mustang may have been the definition of accommodating in the three weeks since Ed had taken him up on that offer, it only made sense for some drawback to crop up eventually. Pity it had to make itself known at the ass-crack of dawn.

“Would it help if I told you they just arrested Private Tate?” Mustang asked.

That was… interesting.

Interesting enough to cut through the groggy haze of half-sleep.

Ed cracked his eye again. “Maybe. You talking about the loyalist case?” Mustang hummed, and Ed pried his face free of the pillow and frowned. “Why the fuck would a private be included in that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But the brass has given us first go at him, and I want to figure out how best to approach the interrogation before we get started. Thought you might want to tag along.”

With another unintelligible groan, Ed rolled up so he could sit on the edge of the bed. He inched forward until his dangling feet met the floor. “Will there be coffee?” he asked around a yawn, grinding one knuckle into his eye hard enough to see stars.

“Will there be coffee,” Mustang scoffed and turned on his heel without preamble, retreating down the stairs. That was another thing he had in his favor: an endless supply of coffee. Good shit, too. Not that cheap, watery excuse for sustenance the military provided. “Get moving, Ed. We leave in ten.”

* * *

Private Nathaniel Tate Jr. was a kid.

That was what it boiled down to.

Seventeen. Fresh out of the academy. He had a bad case of acne, couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and was sporting a scraggly, would-be beard that grew in sparse patches across his jaw. He also looked like he was about to cry.

Even still, he shook his head when confronted with the photographs spread out across the table.

Breda leaned forward and jabbed his finger at a picture of a key lying on the floor. When Tate shook his head again, Breda flipped open the case file and pulled out an authorization form. He put it and the photograph side by side and questioned Tate. Sweat beaded at Tate’s temples, but he remained quiet, thin-lipped and stubbornly resolute.

Mustang reached out to knock on the one-way mirror, and inside the interrogation room, Breda paused.

Ed just sighed. “Hit him hard and fast, huh?”

“I thought it would work,” Mustang said, watching as Breda pushed his chair back and left the room. “He’s just a private. Hasn’t even been in service for six months. I figured he’d crack under the pressure.”

“Guess you thought wrong.”

“Mmm, I wouldn’t say that.” 

Rolling his eyes, Ed left Mustang standing by himself at the mirror. “Yeah, yeah. You just can’t stand to admit you were wrong.” He shrugged out of his jacket and slung it across the table, then hopped up to sit beside it.

“On the contrary,” Mustang said. “I firmly believe that, if I were ever in the wrong, I would be man enough to own up to it.”

“ _If?_ ” Ed began, but Mustang cut him off with a soft chuckle.

“Patience, Ed.” Mustang glanced briefly over his shoulder before facing the interrogation room once more and clasping his hands behind his back. “There are different types of pressure.”

Ed wrinkled his nose at the back of Mustang’s head. Smug bastard. But Breda opened the door before Ed could pick apart that statement to figure out what Mustang had in mind. He slipped into the darkened observation room and headed for the one-way mirror, undoing the clasps of his jacket as he went until it hung open in the front.

“I could’ve leaned on him a little harder still,” Breda said. “You didn’t have to call me off.”

“No, he’s done.” One of Mustang’s fingers tapped lightly against the opposite wrist, the only tell of how quickly his mind must have been working, analyzing, scheming. “For now, anyway.”

Breda took a deep breath, crossing his arms. “You know, I was really hoping for something more. Can’t say I didn’t _expect_ this, but I was hoping.”

“If it was too easy, I wouldn’t trust it.”

“I don’t know, General. This shit’s getting old. I could use a bit of easy right now.” 

“You’ll have to go to that bar on the south side of town if that’s what you’re after,” Ed joked lightly. “They’ve got plenty of easy there.”

That earned him a quick look from both Mustang and Breda, surprise from the former and a grin from the latter that had Ed instantly backtracking. Fucking hell. He should’ve known what that would sound like. One of these days he’d get his brain-to-mouth filter in working order.

“Don’t— it’s not— you—”

If possible, Breda’s grin widened. “You’ve been holding out on us, kid. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I don’t know from _experience_ ,” Ed finally managed, ignoring the amused quirk of Mustang’s mouth in the seconds before he turned back to the mirror. “That’s not why I’ve gone there.”

“It’s Rosie’s. Why else would anyone go there?”

“To drink!”

“Right,” Breda teased, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wasn’t aware bars had started keeping apple juice on tap.”

“Oh, shove off already,” Ed grumbled. “Isn’t there something else you should be doing? Like wringing some information out of this guy? Or raiding a hot dog stand?”

“I’m not really in the mood for hot dogs, but I could go for some Candy. Why don’t you run down to Rosie’s and ask for her. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Legs for miles. I’m sure you know the one.”

Ed let his head fall forward but couldn’t help huffing a quiet laugh. Forget the team having spent too much time working for Mustang. He’d spent too much time around the whole lot of them if he was taking shit like that in stride these days. When he glanced up, Brenda winked to show there were no hard feelings before getting back to business.

“So what’s the plan, sir? Should I throw Tate in a holding cell?”

Mustang cocked his head in consideration. “How’s the search going?” he asked instead.

Breda glanced at Ed who shook his head. He even toggled the power switch on the radio receiver clipped to his waistband just to check, but the soft beep it issued ensured the silence wasn’t a malfunction on their end.

“No word from Havoc or Fuery yet,” Breda said. “But Tate’s dorm is a shoebox. It shouldn’t take long to sweep.”

“And the major?”

“Still running background,” Ed offered. He’d passed her in the hall while Breda and Mustang were ironing out the finer details of an approach that had ended up a colossal waste of time. “She said she’d find you when she had something.”

Mustang’s finger continued its rhythmic tapping, and Ed could almost feel it keeping time with his heartbeat. _Tap-tap_ , _tap-tap_ , _tap-tap_. _No news_ , _no news_ , _no news_. _Six dead_ , _six dead_ , _six dead_. _Too late_ , _too late_ , _too late_. _Your fault_ , _your fault_ , _your_ — 

“General?” Breda prompted, and Ed blinked to find Mustang had turned.

“Take an hour. Let’s give Tate a little alone time with the evidence. Ghosts aren’t pleasant company. He might be more willing to talk after seeing what he helped bring about.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Ed dipped his chin as Breda passed by on his way out of the observation room. The door hadn’t even fully closed behind him before Mustang was heaving a weary sigh, crossing the room, and sinking into the chair nearest Ed. Bracing his elbows on the table, he rested his forehead in his laced fingers and used his thumbs to massage his temples.

Sometimes it felt like they’d never be able to fully bury Bradley in the past. Years later, his influence and ideals still lingered like a rotten bag of trash someone had forgotten to toss out. And if Ed felt it, he was sure Mustang, who cared for Amestris and its people on a completely different level, felt it even more.

Ed stared down at Mustang’s bent head. His fingers twitched with the sudden urge to… what? Rest a hand on his shoulder? As if. Their dynamic had progressed from when he was fifteen and stubborn and fundamentally opposed to anything even remotely resembling authority, but not so much for that. Small touches – of understanding, of solidarity, of comfort – were too much even for them.

Maybe that was a hypocritical stance to take given… well… everything, but Ed had been labeled worse things. Instead, he pointedly ignored the impulse and studied Tate who was looking over the photographs and fidgeting in his chair. 

“This is the third person we’ve arrested, and we’re still not getting any answers,” Ed said. “None of these fuckers are talking.”

“That means they’re more afraid of whoever’s in charge than us.”

Cracking his neck, Ed punched one fist into the other palm. “They just need a little incentive.”

Mustang chuckled, albeit weakly. “I’m not sure that’s enough to make him talk.”

“Are you saying I don’t look tough?”

“No, I’m saying that display would be more intimidating if you still had the automail,” Mustang corrected. “A seven foot tall suit of armor shadowing you probably never hurt either.”

Ed shrugged one shoulder, relenting, and gradually uncurled his fist. “Eh, I suppose you’re right. I don’t miss the automail so much that I want it back, but it did make more of an impact when someone needed convincing.”

“Of that I am painfully aware. I have a whole drawer dedicated to mission reports that document just how often you resorted to that tactic.”

“Got the job done, didn’t it?”

“In a sense.”

“Then stop complaining.” Ed finally gave into the urge to touch Mustang. If a light kick to Mustang’s hip could be considered touching. It was safer, if nothing else. Less intimate. More buddy-buddy. “So,” he continued after a moment, turning to Tate once more. “What do you think’s keeping him quiet? Blackmail?”

Mustang rotated in the chair to follow Ed’s gaze and propped his head in one hand. “Most likely. He’s too nervous. Not like Cordova and Fitzsimmons. That means he’s wavering. He doesn’t have a personal interest in this.”

“I still don’t get it, though. Why some fucking peon from personnel? The most important thing he’s ever done is cut a paycheck. Fuck, the worst thing on his rap sheet is probably jaywalking. What would they want with someone like that?”

“That’s probably exactly what they want,” Mustang said. “Anonymity. We would’ve never taken a second look at him if we hadn’t found his key at the last site.”

“But he’s still just… come on, Mustang, fucking _look_ at him.” Ed gestured wordlessly to where Tate was sliding a picture of his standard issue key on top of a grislier one of their most recent victim sprawled out on the floor covered in blood so he wouldn’t have to face it.

Mustang nodded. “I know. But they must have found something to motivate him.”

“And what, they just used him to access offices after hours?” Ed asked. “That’s a lot of trouble when you could just kick in a door.” He couldn’t be the only one who did that.

“I agree. I think there’s something more going on here. Contact information seems a somewhat banal goal, but I don’t know what else they’d stand to gain from someone in personnel. Maybe they’re going to target family members next?”

“I guess that’s one way to get at someone they’d rather not go up against directly.” Ed didn’t bother name-dropping Mustang. It went without saying.

“But you don’t think that’s the case,” Mustang surmised.

Blinking, Ed glanced down to find Mustang already watching him. He’d still been ironing out the thought process and where it was headed in his mind, but Mustang had already read between the lines, saw where he’d end up, and beat him to the punch. It was unnerving how well they’d come to work together over the years.

“No, not really,” Ed said. “Which just puts us back at square one with nothing to go on. Fucking perfect.”

Mustang flashed a faint, reassuring smile before looking away. “Let’s just see if anything turns up at the dorm first, and we’ll go from there. I doubt whoever is behind this meant to leave Tate’s key at the scene, so now they’ve got a loose end on their hands. It might make them sloppy.”

Sloppy.

Careless.

Or maybe Tate would crack like an egg when Breda stepped up to the plate for round two. Mustang’s plan of keeping Tate waiting seemed to be working. Sweat was visibly darkening the collar of his undershirt, and his knee was bouncing like a jackhammer beneath the table. They could only hope for some kind of a break.

“But in the meantime,” Mustang began slowly. “Rosie’s?”

Ed groaned loud and long, enough to drown out Mustang’s subsequent snickering. “Fuck, not you too.” Then he kicked Mustang again, a little harder this time, just because.

* * *

Shifting the box onto one arm, Ed blindly slapped his other hand across the surface of the door in search of the handle. He found the decorative windows, the mail slot, the wooden panels, the— fuck, too far, that was the doorbell. Okay, there was the deadbolt. A little bit lower and…

The door swung open, and Ed stumbled into the foyer. “It’s just me,” he yelled at the distant sound of footsteps.

“That was a quick trip,” Mustang called back from deeper in the house. “That’s either a really good sign, or a really bad one.”

“I’ll give you three guesses which one it is, and the first two don’t count.”

Fucking landlord. Ed had gone for a last-ditch attempt at a second chance, but the old man had labeled him an unreliable tenant and pointed him towards the storage room for the umpteenth time. He’d even offered to prepay the next six months – how he’d scrape together that many cenz was a problem he’d figure out if the landlord agreed – but no dice. So Ed had done as he had every other afternoon that week: hauled one of his many boxes to Mustang’s.

Ed toed off his shoes, then shuffled around in a tight circle so he could kick the door shut with his actual foot. Gouging the wood would be a poor way of repaying Mustang for the free room and board. He carefully rotated back around after it latched, making sure to avoid the coat rack and the mirror and the useless entryway table.

“Ah,” Mustang said. This time he sounded closer, but Ed couldn’t see much around the box. “I was going to say good for optimism’s sake, but…”

_But if it was something good, it wouldn’t be mine._

With a frown, Ed shook off the thought. Mustang hadn’t meant it that way, and he knew that. It wasn’t even completely true. There were plenty of good things in his life. Al, medium-rare steak, Al, rare alchemical texts, Al, coffee, Al, the indoor plumbing he’d taken for granted until his stint in those backwood Aerugonian states, Al. Statistically speaking, Al alone outweighed the bad. Put the rest of it together and that was a solid seventy-three percent good.

Even still, the universe seemed determined to test the strength of that calculation because he took one step, promptly tripped over his discarded shoes with one foot, snagged the toes of the other on the edge of the rug, and was sent sprawling with a muffled _oomph_.

Ed laid there for a moment, fingers squished beneath the box, chin rug burned, legs akimbo, and just… stared. And huffed. And rifled through vaguely menacing thoughts on the eventual fate of Mustang’s entryway rug, but mainly he just stared. Figured. He should’ve sucked it up and hired a professional moving team to do all this for him weeks ago. This is what he got for being stingy and distracted. Or for allowing himself even one second to think he deserved anything good after what he’d done.

“Good lord, Ed, are you okay?”

Ed could feel the approaching footsteps through the floor as much as hear them. The box disappeared, and he was left looking at the heap of books that had fallen out of it. He could just make out Mustang’s concerned expression in his periphery, one hand hovering a few inches above his shoulder as if Mustang had thought twice about the gesture but couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away completely.

“Think so,” Ed grunted, cataloguing the various aches as he rolled over. “Did the binding come off Bartlett’s primer?”

“What?”

“I said, did the binding co—”

“I heard what you said, I just… actually, you know what, never mind. Let me check,” Mustang said. There was some indistinct rustling followed by the thump of books being stacked on top of one another. “It’s intact. Barely. Is this dental floss?”

Tilting his head back, Ed saw Mustang inspecting the makeshift binding. “Yeah. The original broke a couple years ago, and floss was the only thing I had on hand at the time. Don’t tell Al. It was technically his.”

“The floss or the primer?”

“Uh… both, I think.”

“In that case, your secret is safe with me,” Mustang said solemnly. “I’ll take it to the grave.”

Ed snorted. “How about the series on spagyrics?” He’d been digging into those off and on a few months back, trying to find a connection that would help Al tie traditional herbal medicine into alkahestry. If he didn’t get back into it soon, Al was bound to start bugging him.

“Also whole and accounted for.”

“Great. In that case, I’ll survive.” Grabbing his knees, Ed used them as leverage to pull himself upright. “A few bruises never killed anybody.”

Some of the rug’s fibers had gotten caught in the joints of Ed’s automail during the fall. He twisted forward to untangle them, flexing his toes to help work them free and casting the occasional sidelong glance to where Mustang was thumbing through the dilapidated primer.

“The circle is the cornerstone of any transmutation,” Mustang read aloud after a moment. “It focuses and dictates the flow of power, tapping into the energies that already exist within the earth and matter. It represents the cyclical flow of the world’s phenomena and turns that power to manipulable ends.”

Ed nodded as he focused on a particular strand that had twisted itself around a screw. “Good job. Once you have that down, you’ll be ready to move on to alchemical runes.”

“Very funny,” Mustang deadpanned. He skimmed a few more pages, careful not to damage the binding any further. “I have a hard time imagining you or Alphonse ever needing a primer.”

“Not to, like, brag or anything, but we didn’t. We learned by reading the books Hohenheim left behind, and the dude was four hundred years old. The most basic thing in his study was Franz’s studies on symbolism.”

“Naturally.” Mustang gently closed the book. “So may I ask, then, why you have a primer well-used enough that it needs to be held together by dental floss?”

“Sentimental reasons,” Ed said. “Al’s big into that shit, and that was the first book Teacher gave us. It was before she realized we were beyond needing it, but still. Then Al forgot he’d stashed it in his armor when we torched our home. It wouldn’t have felt very symbolic to burn it on its own after the fact, so we lugged it around.”

Ed gritted his teeth when the jagged edge of the screw nicked him. Damn fibers refused to come loose. Sucking the drop of blood from the tip of his finger, he gave up on preserving the rug. Mustang could fix it later. With a quick tug, he snapped the last of the threads and spun in place to begin repacking the box.

“Now it’s part of your… rather extensive personal library,” Mustang said, moving to help. “This is the fifth box of books you’ve brought over this week. Should I be making plans to sacrifice the guest bathroom for a second study?”

“Where would I piss, then? Your bathroom? No thanks.” Ed dumped an armful into the box. “Nah, I just need to jury-rig a bookshelf before I bring over the other eight.”

“Eight… books?” Mustang asked slowly and somewhat hopefully.

“No, you idiot. Boxes. Why the fuck would I have left just eight books behind.”

Mustang sighed as if he didn’t know what else to expect. “I think you’re the first person I’ve ever met who owns more research material than personal effects.”

“Well, duh. I like to read.” Ed threw in the last of the books, tucked the flaps into each other, and hefted the box with a grunt. “Knickknacks don’t serve much purpose other than taking up space that could be used for something more productive.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Mustang said, watching Ed get a better grip on the box. “You know, you’re welcome to put those in my study. I’m sure your room is getting a bit cramped, whereas I have plenty of shelves.”

“Yeah?” 

It wasn’t like Ed hadn’t noticed the extra space over the past few weeks. He’d spent several nights in Mustang’s study perusing what all he’d collected over the years. But adding in his own items, spreading his things out into the rest of the townhouse… that felt permanent, and personal, and he hadn’t meant to stay even as long as he had.

Then again, calling his room cramped _was_ an understatement. The closet was stuffed to the brim, and the remaining boxes were stacked precariously across the rest of the space. He hadn’t realized how much stuff he’d accumulated until he was trying to cram it all into one hundred forty-four square feet.

“Okay, I… yeah. Okay.”

Mustang offered a small smile. “Okay.”

“I’ve just got one question,” Ed said as he trailed Mustang down the hall towards the study. “Where the fuck am I supposed to put Trismosin?”

“Ideally, on a shelf.”

“Don’t be a smartass. I’ve seen your methods of organization. Who the fuck categorizes by branch of alchemy, then height of the book?”

“Someone who prefers to study individual subjects at a time and also appreciates aesthetic,” Mustang said, pausing in the doorway long enough to flick on the light.

Ed rolled his eyes but breezed past Mustang. “Sounds boring and slow. And still doesn’t answer the question,” he said, dropping the box and waving a hand in the general direction of the bookshelves.

“Well, which subject is most prevalent?”

“None. That’s why it’s called a comprehensive study,” Ed said. “Have you even _read_ Trismosin?”

Mustang rubbed the back of his neck. “Once, probably fifteen years ago. I can’t say I remember much.”

“That explains at least part of what’s wrong with you.”

“If only it were that simple,” Mustang said. Then, eyeing the bookshelves: “What if you put it with whatever subject Trismosin covered first?”

Ed cringed. Oh god, it physically hurt to even consider that.

“They— you can’t— that’s not how libraries are supposed to work!” he sputtered. “How do you fucking find anything? Why don’t I just start a brand new section labeled Things That Don’t Fucking Belong? I’ll haul my bed over there, too, while I’m at it.”

“Come now, Ed, don’t be histrionic. You clearly belong in the Useful Yet Mentally Exhausting section, right next to the volumes of theoretical time alchemy.

Ed threw up his hands with a sound of disgust. “That’s it, I’m rearranging this. Someone’s gotta make sense of all your shit. How the fuck do you live like this? Put it with whatever subject comes first… fucking hell. And then all this _by height_ bullshit. Prejudice, that’s what that is. At the rate you’re going, you might as well just rock-paper-scissors to decide where everything goes. You’re a disgrace to the Dewey Decimal System.”

Mustang didn’t argue, just settled into one of the armchairs with a smile and allowed Ed to systematically rearrange the bookshelves however he liked. Which he did until they were more logically organized. Fuck aesthetics. He needed to know where to find something when he was deep in research.

He’d just finished adding his own books to the section on phytoalchemy when he realized the silence had gone on longer than expected. Usually, Mustang would’ve had something smart or annoying or both to say by this point.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ed found Mustang focused on a stack of case files he’d brought home from the office. It was probably what he’d been doing before Ed barged in and made a mess of the evening. Things must have been bad if Mustang was sacrificing what little remained of his weekend to pore over documents they’d looked over a thousand times already. How much of that pressure was self-inflicted, and how much of it stemmed from those above him breathing down his neck?

“Who do you think they’ll go after next?” Ed asked, broaching the silence.

No one on the team had brought up the fact that they were all high on the list of potential targets, but it always hovered in the air around them regardless. Whoever was behind the murders was steadily whittling down his available options in East City. It was only a matter of time before one of the casualties became more personal, hit closer to home.

They needed to hurry and crack the case before that happened. Ed had finally reached a point that felt like he’d crested the worst of the pain. He was sleeping better, could work without becoming manic about it, and made it through the day without every second feeling like some performance he was putting on more often than not. But if someone he was close to became a victim… he wasn’t ready for the fallout, that terrifying backslide. 

He’d clawed his way out of that pit twice now.

He didn’t know if he could make it out a third time.

“I wish I knew,” Mustang said, drawing Ed back to the present. “It would certainly make our job easier.”

“If nothing else, we should keep extra detail on Tate for a while. In case someone…” Ed slid his thumb across his throat with an exaggerated gurgle. “He hasn’t given us anything to go on yet, but they don’t know that.”

Mustang blinked and looked up. “You’re probably right. Damn, I should’ve considered that earlier.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, then set the files on the side table. “I’m going to run down to HQ and authorize it.”

“Just call it in. No sense in going all the way there. Besides, what if that whack job is lurking around?”

“That would be unwise,” Mustang said, pulling his gloves from one of his trouser pockets.

“But you can’t predict everything,” Ed challenged. “Plus, you’re fucking exhausted. I can tell. There’s no way you’re at the top of your game.”

Mustang arched a brow in Ed’s direction. “Is that concern I’m sensing?”

A lump lodged itself in Ed’s throat, and he disguised the brief, flitting moment of panic with a barking laugh. “Concern for my paycheck, maybe. I don’t know if any other CO would put up with me if you kicked the bucket. They’d probably discharge me.”

“That would also be unwise.”

“Ugh, whatever.”

Ed really needed to figure out a new retort. That one was getting old. But it was instinctive, his natural fallback anytime Mustang’s responses toed the line between professional and… something else. Which seemed to happen more often lately, although it was hard to tell if that was just a natural progression of their working relationship. Mustang was chummy with the rest of the team off the clock. It made sense for that camaraderie to extend to Ed as well. It didn’t have to be a direct result of… that night.

The sound of fluttering papers had Ed pausing mid-reach for the line of books on the uppermost shelf to look back over his shoulder. Mustang hadn’t left to go to HQ or make a phone call. Instead, he stood beside the armchair, frozen in place, attention trained on the photograph in his hand, a deep furrow between his brows. Discarded pages from the case littered the floor around him.

“Mustang?” Ed lowered down from his tiptoes when he didn’t immediately respond. “What’s up?”

Swallowing, Mustang held out the picture. “Tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

Ed left the bookshelf behind and snatched up the photo. It wasn’t much, just a crooked shot of Tate’s key at the latest crime scene. The marker bearing the designated evidence number was barely in the frame. A better quality picture had made it into the official case file, but apparently, Mustang hadn’t tossed the botched ones.

“That you need a better forensic photographer,” Ed said. It had taken the sergeant on duty at the time five tries to get a decent picture.

“What about the man in the upper right corner?”

Ed cocked his head. The background was a blurry mess of the officers and military police who’d been milling about the scene, but he could just make out the man in question. He was ignoring those around him in favor of staring almost directly at the camera with a smarmy fucking half-smile that gave Mustang a run for his money.

“I don’t know,” Ed said, shrugging as he tried to hand over the picture. “That he looks like a punk ass bitch.”

“I— okay.” With a long-suffering sigh, Mustang pushed it back. “Anything else?”

Ed held the photo up with both hands and squinted at it. What the hell was Mustang getting at? The guy looked like a straight up tool. A sleazy nobody ready to do whatever it took to climb the political ladder. Or _who_ ever because, unlike Mustang, he seemed to have settled for the _fuck your way to the top_ approach. Though, it apparently hadn’t been working out for him so far because he was still a—

He was—

Wait a minute.

“His bars and medals don’t match.”

Ed could practically hear the satisfaction in Mustang’s voice when he said, “Bingo.” It sounded like victory. Like something wonderfully, alluringly, and deliciously dangerous.

All the pieces of the puzzle gradually notched themselves into place, and an eager smile tugged at the corners of Ed’s mouth as his heart tripped a quicker rhythm. “Fuck me,” he breathed, past the point of caring about the implications that came with those two simple words because they'd found him. They’d finally fucking _found him_.

Now it was time to go catch him.

That bastard was going down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're at all confused on what just happened, hang in there. All will be explained in the next chapter!
> 
> Updates and items of inspiration are being tracked [here](http://amidst-stars.tumblr.com/tagged/remembered-landscape).


	5. Chapter 5

Ed clambered into the passenger seat of Mustang’s personal car and slammed the door. Normally, he wouldn’t set foot inside of it with Mustang behind the wheel, but if there was ever a time to risk death by a fiery crash at the hands of Mustang’s piss-poor driving abilities, this was it. Time was of the essence. The sooner they got to Eastern Command, the sooner they could start piecing together an identity.

“I can’t believe it. The son of a bitch has been playing us all along.” Ed kept looking at the picture of the culprit as Mustang slung an arm over the seat and backed out of the drive. “This whole time we thought it was an inside job, but— well, I guess it still was, in a sense, but this mother fucker was just using inside people. He’s not even military.”

“Now we know why he needed Tate,” Mustang said.

It wasn’t just for access.

It was for fucking _clearance_.

The bastard had blackmailed Tate into manufacturing the bars and medals of a ranking colonel to put on a uniform he’d probably stolen so he could infiltrate HQ and move around more or less unnoticed.

“I didn’t even know the personnel office made all the shit for our uniforms. Did you?” Ed asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. “Fuck, that would’ve been a handy bit of information.” Not enough to connect the dots, but it would’ve given them something else to consider.

Mustang threw the car in gear, and the tires squealed as he floored it. “Seeing how their department is responsible for issuing everyone’s uniforms, that information is technically common knowledge.”

“What? How was I supposed to know they issue them?”

“Because you went there to get measured for yours.”

“No shit? Huh,” Ed said in mild disbelief. In his defense, he’d done his best to erase the day he’d finally hung up his red coat and given in to wearing the military uniforms from his memory. It had been a sad moment. The end of an era. “I still don’t see how no one picked up on this, though.”

Mustang cut a corner so sharp the car tilted onto two wheels for a few heart-stopping seconds. “People saw the bars and thought he was a colonel. No one looked twice to see the medals didn’t match his supposed rank.”

“Meanwhile, I can’t walk around the grounds without someone giving me the stink eye,” Ed grouched. “But sure, let’s allow some psychopath off the street to hang around a fucking murder investigation.”

“There were a lot of lower ranking people working the scene. Do you really expect a sergeant to question the authenticity of a superior officer?”

“I would have!”

“Of course _you_ would,” Mustang said. “But not everyone can possess that infamous Elric confidence.”

“People need to stop worrying so much and grow a pair.” Holding up the picture between two fingers, Ed flashed it in Mustang’s face. “If they did, we might not be in this mess.”

Mustang swatted him away. “Questioning superior officers without fear of repercussion sounds like a bureaucratic issue to tackle at a later date. Our first priority is—”

“Figuring out who this guy is,” Ed finished. “I know.”

Thank fuck Tate had given him mismatched paraphernalia. Ed didn’t know if the mistake had been intentional. Maybe it was a silent attempt at raising a red flag, or maybe Tate was just really bad at his job. Either way, it had tipped them off. Without that little detail, they’d still be spinning their wheels.

But even though action helped provide an outlet for his anxious energy, Ed could still feel lingering traces of it coursing through his veins. The culprit had been at the scene. He knew they’d found Tate’s key. And if he had people on the inside, it was pretty much guaranteed he knew Tate had been taken into custody.

It was a good thing Mustang had spotted the discrepancy in the photograph before calling in the extra detail to HQ. There was no way this bastard was going to risk letting that loose end dangle, and he was apparently the type that liked to commit the deed personally and come back to revel in the carnage, which made this their best chance at catching him. Now, when he was probably feeling the most vulnerable.

Mustang was right. People made mistakes when they felt the walls closing in around them.

The pressure was on.

“We need to catch this fucker before we lose the element of surprise,” Ed said, worrying his lower lip as he stared at the picture, committed that face to memory. “If he gets wind that we’re onto him, he’s going to bolt, and who knows where he’d go next. Probably Central, and there’s too many god damn people there. We’d never be able to isolate him. We have to stop th— _holy fucking shit_!”

A truck with the right of way blared its horn as Mustang sped through a red light. Ed couldn’t quite decide what to do and ended up alternating between cowering into his seat and scrambling to hold onto anything permanently attached to the vehicle.

“What the ever loving fuck, Mustang?” he exclaimed once they’d made it through the intersection.

Mustang didn’t even appear fazed by their near-death experience. “We’re in a hurry.”

As if that made everything okay.

Fucking hell.

“God.” Ed collapsed back against the seat and clutched a hand over his chest. His heart was still screaming against his ribs, rattling his entire skeleton. “I think my fucking heart just dropped out of my ass.”

“That sounds incredibly uncomfortable.”

“Shut up,” Ed said. “I really need to learn how to drive already. I’m tired of fearing for the safety of the general population every time you come within ten feet of a set of keys.”

Mustang glanced his way, then back to the road before Ed could snap at him to pay attention. “You don’t know how to drive?”

“You do remember where I’m from, right? We’re talking about Resembool. No one down there even owns a car. What the fuck did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” Mustang admitted. “I assumed you learned after you left home.”

Ed snorted. “Oh, sure. I just penciled it in between travelling around trying to get our bodies back and fighting off evil homunculi.”

“You’ve been permanently station in East City for two years now,” Mustang pointed out.

“Yeah, and it was always easier to walk. I like walking. Walking’s good.” Also, he never really wanted to ask someone to teach him. Hawkeye wouldn’t have been so bad, but he didn’t trust the rest of the team not to find out somehow and give him shit. “Anyway, shouldn’t we be making a plan of what we’re going to do when we get to HQ?”

“Storm in, figure out an identity, catch the bad guy,” Mustang said, flashing him a trademark grin. “Easy.”

“And if something doesn’t fit into your pathetically optimistic version of events?”

“We’ll wing it.”

Ed sighed. That was supposed to be his plan, not Mustang’s. “How the fuck did you ever make general?”

* * *

They screeched up to the front steps of Eastern Command in record time. Mustang tried to throw the car into park, accidentally landed in reverse, and had to hop beside the rolling vehicle on one foot until he managed to find the brake with the other. Meanwhile, Ed didn’t even bother closing the door, just left it gaping open as he bounded up the steps three at a time.

For someone who spent an inordinate amount of time sitting behind a desk, Mustang was quick to catch up. Ed hadn’t been at the front desk for more than a few seconds before he ran up beside him.

“I need access to the personnel office,” Mustang demanded.

“And all the facility sign-in records for the past eight months,” Ed added. He shrugged when Mustang looked at him, brow furrowed in a silent question. “It’s worth a shot. He had to have been a guest at some point.”

Mustang gave a single, sharp nod of agreement, but the woman manning the front desk just blinked owlishly up at them when they both turned to face her. “I’m sorry, sir, but the personnel office is restricted.”

“What the fu—” Ed began, but Mustang cut him off.

“I don’t believe I caught your name, Miss…?”

“Second Lieutenant Weston, sir.”

“Miss Weston,” Mustang continued in a tone reserved specifically for sweet talking people. He even elbowed Ed out of the way, the better to fold one arm across the counter and adopt his most appeasing expression. “This is a matter of upmost urgency. People’s lives are at stake. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. I hate to even ask a lovely lady such as yourself to get involved, but if we hope to apprehend the individual responsible for these recent deaths, I need your help.”

Half-hidden behind Mustang’s calculatedly casual sprawl, Ed rolled his eyes.

Mustang was pulling out all the big guns with this one.

“I understand that, sir, and I wish I could help. Really, I do,” Weston said, and to her credit, Ed believed her. No one could fake that kind of starry-eyed attraction. “But personnel is maintained by Central. You’ll need authorization from a general in their department to access the office.”

What a load of bullshit. What use was there in being the highest ranking officer in the city if you couldn’t get access to the things supposedly under your control?

Ed turned away. Maybe he should just head to the personnel office on his own while Weston was distracted, break down the door for whenever Mustang found his way there, then head to the detention center to make sure Tate hadn’t met an untimely end. That had to be better than standing around waiting for Mustang to finish flirting-slash-persuading.

Movement at the far end of the hall caught Ed’s eye.

He briefly glanced that way out of habit, then did a double take. One of the lights was out at the end of the hall, and the person who’d just rounded the corner had jerked to a stop in the shadows. They stood there, frozen in place as the seconds ticked soundlessly by.

Ed’s eyes narrowed. Normally, he wouldn’t have thought twice about spotting someone else at HQ after work hours. People hung around for all sorts of reasons. But there was something about the way whoever this was had stopped so suddenly, hadn’t moved since, kept looking in their direction…

The person took a single step backwards.

Then several more, slowly, then a bit faster, all without turning around.

“Mustang,” Ed said.

Something in his tone must have registered through Mustang’s spiel because he immediately fell silent and followed Ed’s line of sight. Then the person passed from beneath the shadows, and the stark lighting highlighted features Ed had only just memorized.

Ed stiffened and faced the hall completely, heart pounding in his chest.

 _Gotcha_.

As if sensing the jig was up, the man gave up all pretense and ran. He disappeared around the corner just as Ed took off after him.

“Fullmetal—”

“On it,” Ed called back to Mustang over his shoulder.

“But you don’t have a—”

“Don’t need one. He’s not getting away this time.”

Ed didn’t like guns anyway. The only place he’d fired the military issue .45 he’d been forced to accept after returning to service was at the shooting range, and even that was just because checking its accuracy was a requirement. He’d never intended to actually use it. Some people might think he’d become weaker after the Promised Day, but their overconfidence usually became his strength. The same could probably be said for this guy. Ed didn’t need alchemy to bring him down.

He skidded around the corner in time to see the man take a right at the next hallway.

At the next, he only caught a glimpse of his cavalry skirt.

At the next, the only thing he had to go on was a couple officers’ bemused pointing when he demanded, “Which way did he go?” as he darted past them.

The guy was seriously fast. Faster, even, than Ed. But that didn’t mean he was going to escape because if he’d taken another left like the MP’s indicated, he was headed straight for the records room, and there was a shortcut Ed could take through the upcoming offices that would close the gap and also give a clear sign of where he’d gone for Mustang, who Ed assumed was still behind him somewhere, to follow.

Ed used his shoulder to bust open the door, slid across the top of five different desks, barely avoided tripping over a chair, knocked down a decorative plant stand, bulldozed his way through the door on the opposite end of the department, and—

“I figured you’d go through there. I hope you don’t mind, but I picked up a little insurance.”

Ed stumbled to a halt. His muscles shook with adrenaline after the headlong sprint, but he couldn’t do anything more than glare as he faced down the man he’d been after, not when he was holding a whimpering, terrified Sheska at gunpoint.

Fuck.

Maybe he should start carrying around that pistol after all.

“Let her go,” Ed ground out.

The man just laughed. “Has an order like that ever worked for you?”

“Well, you know what they say. First time for everything.”

“Yes, there is,” the man agreed with an unsettling grin. “We’ve taken great strides towards restoring this country to its former glory, but I haven’t had the pleasure of killing an alchemist yet. I’ve been looking forward to this for some time now.”

Ed took a couple slow, measured steps out of the doorway. “That’s a nice confession you gave there. Mind repeating it once I take you into custody?”

“You’re confident. I’ll give you that. But then, I expected nothing less from the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

“I hate to break it to you, but if an alchemist is what you’re after, you’re going to be kept waiting.” Unless Mustang showed up in the next thirty seconds, which would actually be really fucking perfect considering Ed was running kinda low on options. “I haven’t been able to perform alchemy for two years now.”

“The rest of the country doesn’t care about that. To them, you’ll always be the one who saved them on the Promised Day. Now,” the man said and gestured with the pistol, “on the ground.”

Technically, Ed couldn’t take all the credit for the Promised Day even if he wanted to. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything if not for the countermeasures Hohenheim put in place. For someone so wrapped up in Bradley’s ideals, this guy didn’t even have his fucking facts straight. But Ed didn’t really feel like arguing the finer points while the man had the barrel of a pistol jammed to Sheska’s temple.

What the hell was he supposed to do? The longer he kept this guy talking, the better chance he had of gaining some backup, but that put Sheska even more at risk than she already was. The guy was getting twitchy, eyes darting around the space, losing his cool. He reminded Ed of a cornered animal. It was only a matter of time before he did something drastic, and adding more people to the mix would only speed up that process.

Ed needed to end this while he was still predictable.

That only left one option.

Fuck, this was going to hurt.

Without giving the guy any time to think, Ed dropped to the floor, tucked into a forward roll, then immediately pushed off to his right. The pistol’s sharp report echoed in the empty hallway, and pain lanced through Ed’s leg, white-hot and piercing. That was okay, though, because he could hear Sheska screaming in the background. She couldn’t scream if the guy had blown a bullet through her brain.

Ed managed to avoid the next shot by darting back the opposite direction. The man continued to fire off round after round as Ed rushed him, but his backward lurching made the bullets fly wide. Only one more managed to graze Ed’s shoulder before he was close enough to shove Sheska aside and tackle the man to the ground.

Grabbing the man’s wrist, Ed slammed it against the tile. Two more shots rang out, then there was only the steady _click click click_ of an empty chamber. But the man wasn’t about to give up that easily. Twisting his other wrist, a small switchblade slid into his palm from beneath his sleeve and flicked open.

Ed reared back to avoid the first desperate swipe aimed for his face, but he wasn’t quick enough to dodge the second. It caught the front of his shirt, sinking just deep enough that he felt it scrape his chest. A well-aimed knee to the man’s groin hindered his third attempt, and Ed proceeded to snap his arm with a sharp motion.

The man collapsed back onto the floor, howling and writhing. Panting, Ed ignored the weak efforts and used his legs to pin the man more securely. He was out of bullets, his arms was broken, and he was trapped. Not to mention Mustang would be there soon, hopefully with backup. This bastard’s identity and all his fucking plans were about to be blown sky high.

It was over.

It was done.

They’d—

A tiny, strangled sob cut through the steady thrum of adrenaline, and Ed turned to see Sheska slumped against the far wall. She had one hand clamped to the side of her neck, but blood was flowing steadily from between her fingers, staining her uniform, dribbling down her arm. Behind the glasses that sat crooked and broken on her nose, her eyes welled with tears.

And Ed—

Just—

Froze.

A stray bullet. It must have been one of those last couple rounds the man had discharged. Ed had instinctively forced the pistol in another direction without even stopping to consider where Sheska might have landed when he pushed her out of the way. And now she’d been hit.

The world condensed and narrowed, everything else fizzling out into static as Ed gaped at her in mute horror. Flat-lined, just like the monitor that had droned on and on and on after that last heartbeat. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—

Keep himself from slamming his fist into the man’s face.

Ed punched him over and over and over, until his knuckles split open, until the pain blossomed through them like an old friend, until the man’s face was virtually unrecognizable, a battered mess of bruises, blood, and broken teeth. It was easier to blame him than face the truth. But no matter how hard he tried, it didn’t stop the ache in Ed’s chest, didn’t even take the edge off, so he kept going, on and on until—

“Stop!”

Hands grappled at Ed’s shoulders. He flung back one arm, unthinking, and there was a low grunt when he made contact, but he didn’t stop to check on whoever he’d hit, just threw all his weight behind another punch.

“Sir!” another voice that sounded like Hawkeye joined in, then: “Edward, stop! Stop, you’re going to kill him!”

Kill him.

That sounded good right about then.

But those same hands were back, more determined this time as they hauled Ed upright and away. He stumbled backwards down the hall, flailing all the while, but it wasn’t until they were several feet away that he fought his way free and whirled around.

“Stand down, Fullmetal,” Mustang said, meeting his glare head-on. “Now. That’s an order.”

Bright red blood oozed from Mustang’s nose, and the skin below his right eye was already starting to bruise. He must have been the one Ed backhanded earlier. A faint sliver of remorse wriggled around in Ed’s stomach, but he squashed it back down.

“Why the hell should I?” he challenged instead. “Give me one good reason.”

Mustang tilted his head slightly, and over his shoulder, Ed noticed that the majority of the officers who’d arrived on the scene were casting not-so-subtle looks their way. Even Hawkeye seemed concerned as she helped a medic tend to Sheska. He didn’t care, though. Mustang worried too much about what people thought sometimes. Fuck appearances and reputation and all these god damn psychos who thought they could bring the world to heel. Fuck all of it.

As if he could read that train of thought, Mustang snagged Ed’s wrist once again. He yanked open the door to the nearest office and shoved Ed unceremoniously inside, and Ed was forced to do an awkward limp-hop-limp-hop to keep from falling before catching himself on a chair.

By dodging initially to the right, Ed had hoped the guy would hit his automail leg, but his aim had been high. The bullet had entered what was left of his actual leg before getting wedged in the port. He could feel it scraping against the automail every time he moved, and little shocks from what was probably a severed wire kept zinging along his nerves. The cut on his chest smarted, too, along with his shoulder where one of the bullets had caught him.

It was… invigorating, in a way.

It reminded him of when he was younger, when he and Al were still travelling all the time, getting into fights every other city.

Things were so much simpler back then.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Mustang asked after shutting the door. “That man is our primary target. Even if he refuses to talk, we’ve likely caught the perpetrator behind all these murders. Now, after all our work, you’re just going to kill him?”

“Why not?” Ed spat. “It’s what he fucking deserves.”

Mustang’s brows drew together in a deep frown. “You’re not a killer, Ed, and we both know that. Where’s this coming from?”

“That bastard murdered all those people. He shot Sheska. He tried to— he almost— he—”

“So did Bradley,” Mustang said. “So did the rest of the homunculi and Scar and even your father, unintentional as it might have been. Hell, Ed, _I’ve_ killed people. Lots of them. Are you going to kill me too?”

“That’s not—”

“Of course it’s the same. Murder’s murder. There’s no justifying or rationalizing it. You know that better than most. Or you used to.” Mustang jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “That man committed heinous deeds, but he has to stand trial for it. That’s the kind of country I’m trying to build. The one you and I fought to save.”

With a growl, Ed smacked away the chair he’d been holding onto. It clattered across the floor, losing a couple of its legs when it connected with the wall. Meanwhile, Mustang crossed his arms and looked from Ed to the chair and back again, studied him as if he were a puzzle he could figure out if he only tried hard enough.

“What’s going on?” Mustang asked after a moment. “What is it about all this that has you so angry?”

“Fuck you, Mustang, I’m not angry!”

“Right, because you’re the image of self-control right now.”

“Damn it, why don’t you shove off,” Ed said. “I’m not some fucking kid anymore. I don’t have to stand here and listed to your psychoanalytic bullshit. You don’t know anything. Not about me or how I feel. You don’t know what it’s like for everything to be—”

The words lodged in Ed’s throat, choking him, stealing his breath, and in the split second before he could whirl around in an attempt to save face, he saw realization settle over Mustang’s features.

“That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why…” Mustang trailed off. A couple steps sounded throughout the otherwise silent office. “Sheska will be fine, Ed. The injury looked worse than it was. The medic already assured she’ll make a complete recovery.

“But I’m the reason she got shot in the first place,” Ed said. “I pushed her that way. I turned the gun.”

“Were you the one who pulled the trigger?”

Curling forward, Ed braced his hands on the desk, head hanging between his arms. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like it wasn’t my fault.”

“It wasn’t,” Mustang said, simply, reassuringly, which just made it all the worse.

“Yes, it fucking was! Who else do you think— I mean, fuck, she wouldn’t have even _been_ here if I hadn’t suggested her for the job all those years ago.”

“And if you hadn’t, she’d still be struggling. Her mother, too, if I remember correctly,” Mustang said. “You helped her get back on her feet. She wouldn’t have succeeded and thrived the way she has if not for you.”

“That’s not— _god_ , you’re so— you just— you don’t fucking _get it_. It’s always like this. Every single fucking time. The people I’m close to suffer, and it’s because of me.” Ed gritted his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached with the strain. “I’m always too late or too slow or too god damn weak. I should’ve been able to protect her. I should’ve been able to fucking _save_ her.”

The papers on the desk crinkled when Ed curled his hands into fists, and he clamped his eyes shut. He thought things had been getting better, but he’d just been fooling himself. He couldn’t run from this, couldn’t run from anything. Red. It was all he could see. There was so much blood. Now and back then. So much fucking blood, and it was all his fault.

“We’re not talking about Sheska anymore, are we?” Mustang asked slowly. There were a few more hesitant footsteps, barely audible over the pounding of Ed’s heart in his ears. “You don’t… Ed, please don’t tell me you think Winry’s death was your fault.”

Ed slammed one fist onto the desk and whirled around, stopping Mustang in his tracks. “She had Krovávyj Fever, Mustang. That’s a Drachman disease. There aren’t many people stupid enough to go traipsing around Drachma’s northern settlements, so where the fuck do you think she got it if not me?”

“But Ling and Lan Fan were with you. And Alphonse.”

“Yeah, and who was the only one who came back to Resembool after that? Me. Because I needed repairs on the automail I had to get after one of my other fucking screw ups. It’s just— damn it, it’s so fucking typical. One mistake leads to another, and another, and another. It’s a continuous cycle, and I can’t fucking break free of it.”

Mustang’s face crumbled. “Oh, Edward…”

“Stop it!” Ed all but snarled. “Stop fucking looking at me like that!” Hearing the sympathy in Mustang’s voice, seeing it in his expression. That was exactly the type of thing Ed had been trying to avoid all this time. “I didn’t _ask_ for your _pity_ , and I don’t _want_ it!”

Mustang blinked at his scathing tone, and Ed staggered back against the edge of the desk and brought his fists to his temples. He couldn’t do this. Once, during a tantrum he’d thrown not long after Hohenheim first left, his mother had told him that all true, honest rage was steeped in love. Maybe she was right. It made sense, whenever he stopped long enough to consider it. All of his anger had always stemmed from something pure.

But right then, he couldn’t sift through his emotions to find the rationale.

There was nothing but the pain.

It clawed its way up from the pit of his stomach, sharpened its teeth on his bones and fed on his marrow until it was a roaring, aching thing. Violent. Vicious. Syncing up to his heartbeat, it washed over him in waves. Ed was no stranger to pain, but there was something about this that he couldn’t rise above. He felt helpless in the wake of it.

“I don’t,” Mustang began, then backtracked. “Ed, that isn’t what I meant at all, please—”

Mustang’s hands settled lightly on his shoulders, and something inside Ed cracked in two, right down the center. He needed to salvage some kind of control, needed to feel like he owned something the way the overwhelming rush of pain owned him. So it was with a quick motion that he surged forward, grabbed two fistfuls of Mustang’s shirt, and crushed their mouths together.

A sharp intake of breath, the stiffness of surprise, then—

Release.

 _Want_.

Ed tilted his head to deepen the kiss, and Mustang’s fingers threaded themselves into the hair at the base of Ed’s skull. A heady heat curled through every inch of Ed’s body. He could hear the shift in Mustang’s breathing, feel the slow glide of Mustang’s tongue along his. It drew an instinctive groan from deep in Ed’s chest that, any other time, would’ve had him cringing in embarrassment, but the threat of reality dancing at the edges of his consciousness drove him forward.

It was just like the last time. Ed wanted to lose himself in this. _Needed_ to. It was easier than facing the bone-deep agony threatening to rip him apart.

Dragging in another breath, Ed licked at Mustang’s lips, sucked at them. He delved deeper and molded himself to Mustang’s body, sternum to hips to achingly hard cock. He chased that feeling higher and higher, up into the blindingly clear stratosphere where nothing could touch him.

It was too bad men weren’t meant for flying.

Mustang’s hands shifted back to Ed’s shoulders. “Wait…”

With a single word, gravity snipped Ed’s wings. He spiraled back down to reality, and oh, that hurt like a son of a bitch. Rejection. Mustang didn’t even need to say it, Ed could see it in his eyes as Mustang stepped back to hold him at arm’s length. 

“Fuck,” Ed said, jerking out of his grasp.

“It’s not—” Mustang took a deep breath. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, joke’s on you because I’m already fucking hurting.”

“This isn’t what you want, Ed,” Mustang tried again. He held his hands out, placating. “Not really.”

“God, would you stop fucking projecting your feelings onto me? If you don’t want to fuck me, fine. If you can’t stand to touch me or kiss me or fucking whatever, fine. But don’t go around trying to make excuses about it.”

“I’m not making excuses. It’s just not… right. It’s not right. Not now— with you— like this.”

What little control Ed had left slipped from his grasp. Or maybe he let it go. This felt like some fight or flight bullshit, and his blood was singing. He slapped Mustang’s outstretched hands out of the way and crowded into his personal space again.

“Fuck you,” Ed snarled, punctuating the expletive with two jabs of his finger to Mustang’s chest. “Fuck you for saying that like you’re above this. It didn’t stop you the first time, so why now? Was I not good enough? You got off, so it couldn’t have been too terrible, but then, maybe I’m just not up to par with the rest of your fucking lays. And now you have the nerve to act all pretentious, like you’re too noble. Fuck you, Mustang. Fuck you. I fucking _hate_ you, _god_ , I—”

Ed’s eyes burned with a combination of anger, shame, and the return of the pain. He shoved Mustang and strode past, but his body was shaking so hard, he didn’t make it more than a handful of steps before he had to stop and gather himself. One witness was bad enough. He couldn’t face a hallway full of people like this, not when he felt like he was about to shatter into a million pieces.

“No, you don’t.”

Everything went still, the words ringing in the silence, and Ed turned slowly. “What did you say?” His voice was hard-edged and cold as steel, sharp enough to cut.

“You don’t hate me,” Mustang said quietly, gently, sadly. That ringing note of empathy, like he could see right through Ed’s anger, only made everything worse. “If you did, you wouldn’t have stuck around all these years. You wouldn’t have come back. You’re just hurt and lashing out, and I get it, I _do_ , but please believe me that it’s not—”

“Wouldn’t have stuck around, huh?” Ed snapped. He didn’t want to hear what else Mustang had to say – _couldn’t_ – and the rest of the breath in his lungs was expelled in a bitter, shuddering, ghost of a laugh. “Well, that’s an easy enough fix.”

A strange calm settled over Ed as he spun around, flung wide the door, and stalked out. People still crowded the hall, but it was mainly Hawkeye and the officers tasked with documenting the evidence. The man behind the killing spree and Sheska were both gone, although a smear of blood remained where she’d been against the wall. Ed deliberately avoided looking at it as he passed by.

“Fullmetal!” Mustang called after him. “Edward!”

But Ed was already gone, rounding the corner without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, hear me out… I’m sorry for the way this went down, but anyone who’s struggled with grief knows that recovery is rarely a straight line of progress. So if you’re frustrated, just remember that Ed hasn’t been properly dealing with Winry’s death, so he was bound to hit rock bottom eventually. Hang in there, we’re almost through the worst of it <3
> 
> Updates and items of inspiration are being tracked [here](http://amidst-stars.tumblr.com/tagged/remembered-landscape).


	6. Chapter 6

The train rumbled along, and Ed let his head fall against the window with a _thump_. He could feel the rattling of the tracks reverberate through his skull. Outside, the endless grassy fields and rolling hills of the rural southeast sped by. The occasional pond and lake dotted the landscape, glimmering brightly in the morning sunlight. It was a stark contrast to how he felt.

_“Wouldn’t have stuck around, huh? Well, that’s an easy enough fix.”_

Ed squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and swallowed down a frustrated groan.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

Not only had he lost control and almost killed the key conspirator in the biggest case they’d dealt with since the coup, he’d broken his own promise not to cross that line with Mustang ever again by kissing him. Fucking hell, Ed had practically thrown himself at the man. And in case that wasn’t enough, he’d topped it all off by throwing a glorified fit and bolting after Mustang turned him down.

 _“Fuck you, Mustang. Fuck you. I fucking_ hate _you,_ god _, I—”_

Ed thumped his head against the glass again, this time with more intent. He wasn't fifteen anymore. He was supposed to be more than just some rash, loud-mouthed kid. But the pain had been too much. He’d wanted to hurt Mustang the same way he was hurting, and judging by the look in Mustang's eyes in those final moments, the tone of his voice when he'd called after Ed, it had worked.

God, it was all so fucking typical. Stupid ass Edward Elric at his finest. He'd let his personal feelings into the mix on every single front, and everything had gone to shit because of it.

How the fuck was he supposed to go back to HQ and face Mustang?

How was he supposed to explain that he hadn’t really meant what he said?

How could he ever look Mustang in the eye again?

And that was even _if_ he was accepted back. Mustang had helped him more times than he could count, not that Ed would ever admit that out loud, and this was how he repaid him? Maybe this would be the thing that finally pushed Mustang over the edge. If he had any sense at all, he’d dishonorably discharge Ed and give him the boot he deserved, be done with him once and for all. It would make everyone’s life that much more peaceful.

Ed blew out a heavy sigh. Fuck, how was it possible for one person to screw up so monumentally? And so many times. If there was a record, he’d beat it a long time ago. This was just the cherry on top of the cake.

“Hey there!”

Ed’s eyes snapped open to find a young boy peeking over the seat. An unruly mop of curls that needed trimming dangled into his eyes, and there was a smudge of dirt above one brow. He couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve. No older than Ed and Al when they’d first set out from Resembool. And like them, he seemed to be travelling alone.

“Uh… hi,” Ed said, lifting his head.

Normally, he wouldn’t mind the attention. Kids weren’t that bad. They were simple and straightforward, unlike the rest of the world. But right then, fresh off his impromptu departure from East City with the persistent ache still circling through his veins, Ed really didn’t feel up to carrying on anything remotely resembling a conversation.

The boy must not have noticed Ed’s sullen demeanor, though – either that or he didn’t care – because he just grinned even wider and said, “My name’s Leon. What’s yours?”

“Edward.”

“That’s cool. There was an Edward in my class for a while at school. He was a jerk, always stealing my lunch money. But you don’t seem nearly as bad as him.”

“Thanks,” Ed said. “I think.”

Pulling himself up, Leon stood on the bench and folded his arms across the back of the seat. His eyes dipped to Ed’s shoulder first, then his chest, then his thigh, and the injuries from his fight that had gone largely unnoticed up to that point twinged in response. They hadn’t been important at the time, but now that the bright edge of his anger was gradually wearing off…

Ed glanced down. Large patches of blood had caked in his shirt and pants, causing the material to stick to his wounds and pull every time he so much as breathed. And that didn’t even get into his automail port. He’d propped his leg up on the opposite seat in an attempt to hold it steady, but the rhythmic rocking of the train was enough to jostle the bullet still lodged inside. Whatever wires it had nicked kept shooting off electrical shocks, making him twitch periodically.

He looked like a god damn maniac.

It was a miracle they’d even let him on the train.

But Leon never faltered. He just took in Ed in all his gory glory, smile firmly in place. It made Ed wonder what all he might have experienced to be so untroubled by Ed’s current state, to come face to face with a bloody passenger and strike up a conversation like it was no big deal instead of ignoring him as most others would.

Oh well. If Leon wasn’t put off, Ed resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be getting out of this easily. It was still a solid four and a half hours until Resembool. Might as well indulge the kid. Maybe it would get his mind off the fact that his life was pretty much crumbling around him.

“If you think this is bad,” Ed said, one corner of his mouth twitching up into a thin smile as he gestured to the line of blood across the front of his torn shirt, “you should see the other guy.”

Leon laughed. “I figured that. You look like someone who knows how to fight.”

“I’ve dabbled a bit.”

A bit.

Ha.

That was the understatement of the century. Ed could practically sense Al’s deadpan expression all the way from Xing.

“My cousin was teaching me for a while, but he had to move away after all the rain. I’m from Aquroya,” Leon added, which made more sense. There was rarely such a thing as too much rain for farmland, but Aquroya was another case. From what Ed had heard, only certain sections of the sinking city had survived last year’s flooding. “I’ve gotten a lot better, but there are still a couple thugs who won’t leave me alone. We get into it sometimes. Do you ever use your leg?”

Ed blinked at the non sequitur. “My… leg?”

“Yeah, the automail,” Leon said. He pointed at the narrow strip of steel visible between Ed’s shoe and the hem of his pants. “Do you ever use it to even the odds?”

“Even what odds?” People complained about Ed being hard to follow. Leon jumped from point to point faster than he could keep up.

“Against other people. You know, since you’re kinda short.”

“Hey now,” Ed said, eyes narrowing as he instinctively bristled. “Look who’s talking.”

Leon shrugged. “Just calling it as I see it.”

“Uh huh.” Ed held Leon’s gaze for a moment before snorting. Simple and straightforward. Isn’t that what he said he liked about kids? “Yeah, I use it. All the time. What’s the point of having a chunk of steel welded to your body if you’re not going to use it to smack people around?”

“Exactly!” Leon exclaimed. “That’s why I use mine, too.”

Ed’s mind promptly stuttered to a halt. Bracing himself against the window, Leon hiked one leg onto the back of the seat and pulled up his pants. His entire leg was automail, as far as Ed could tell. It continued beneath the fabric well above his knee, worn and dented and spotted with rust.

“How much?” Ed asked.

“Both legs, all the way to the hip.” Leon lowered his leg. “You?”

“Just the one. It stops here,” Ed said, drawing a finger across the port, careful to avoid the bullet’s entry point.

He didn’t bother mentioning his four year stint with the arm. Explaining that would be more trouble than it was worth. And he hoped Leon wouldn’t want to know what happened to his leg. A lot of people considered it a sensitive subject and wouldn’t ask, but for those who didn’t… well, Ed had gotten into the habit of lying. Blaming it on the war was easier than telling the truth.

Hauling himself further onto the seat, Leon balanced like a seesaw so he could better invade Ed’s personal space. He reached down, lifted up Ed’s pant leg, and let out a long whistle as he inspected the automail. “Pretty sweet. A lot better than mine. You must have a really good mechanic.”

Ed’s heart seized up.

Fuck.

So much for getting his mind off things.

“I’ve actually been looking for a new one,” Leon continued, seemingly unaware of the emotional crisis Ed was currently experiencing. “Mechanic, I mean. My old one retired. The automail only used to hurt when the weather changed, but now it’s started doing it all the time, and not just in the ports. It goes all the way into my back. Just need someone to take a look.”

Ed fought his way out of the haze enough to ask, “How often do you oil it?”

“Whenever I remember.”

“Which is…?”

“I don’t know,” Leon said. “Every few days.”

“Well, that’s part of the problem. You already have some rust going on. If you don’t keep up with oiling it, that shit will works its way past the port and cause an infection. You’re probably due for an adjustment, too. If you’ve grown.”

Leon hopped off the seat into the center aisle and stood at the entrance to Ed’s section. “My pants _have_ gotten short lately,” he said proudly, and Ed noticed they stopped well above his ankles. “Automail ain’t cheap, though. My parents… we don’t have a lot. This took most of what we had to start with.”

“Any halfway decent mechanic will provide basic growth adjustments at a discount.”

“Mechanics are hard to come by around Aquroya,” Leon said with another shrug. “That’s why I’ve been looking around.”

In other words, they were crooks playing the lack of options to their advantage. Price gouging. That's what it was. And on those who were already saddled with a shit ton of medical bills after the initial outfitting. Ed wrinkled his nose in distaste. He hated bastards like that, taking advantage of others for their own selfish gain.

“Tell you what…” Ed patted down his pockets, then frowned. That’s what he got for running straight to the station. He didn’t have anything on him except for a handful of cenz leftover from the train ticket. “Do you have any paper?”

Flashing a bright grin, Leon disappeared around the seats, and Ed heard him rummaging around. He returned with a notepad and pen. Holding the pen’s cap between his teeth, Ed talked around it as he scribbled down some information.

“This is the number to my mechanic,” he said, returning the notepad to Leon. “Like you said, she’s good. She’ll take care of you.”

“But your automail is topnotch. Mine is…” Leon self-consciously rubbed at one leg. “My parents won’t be able to afford that.”

“Her name is Pinako Rockbell.”

“Rockbell?” Leon’s eyes went wide, and Ed knew where he was going with that even before he squeaked out a disbelieving, “As in Rockbell Automail?”

“Don’t worry. She’s good, _and_ she’s fair.”

“But—”

“She won’t rip you off on the prices.”

“But—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Ed said, rolling his eyes. “Just give her a call, would you?”

Leon screwed up his face in thought, trying to figure out whether Ed was messing with him or not. “What’s the catch?”

It was funny how Leon had no trouble talking to a complete stranger, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe that someone would be genuinely trying to help him out. No exceptions, no strings attached. Just an honest act of goodwill. And by funny, Ed meant sad.

“There’s no catch,” Ed assured. “Call her, and get yourself fixed up. You’ll thank me later.”

Leon stared him down for a couple long seconds before relenting, sliding onto the seat bench opposite Ed. “Alright. But this better not be some kind of joke. I don’t care how good a fighter you are, or how fancy your automail is. I’ll fight dirty if I have to.”

Ed huffed a laugh.

He’d never met a kid that reminded him so much of himself.

“Well, fuck, I don’t want to get into it with someone who’s going to bust out my kneecaps,” he joked. “Don’t worry, kid. There are a lot of douchebags in the world, but I’m not one of them. I'm not steering you wrong.” 

Relaxing back into the seat, Ed shifted his leg over to give Leon more room. Even that slightest movement made the bullet in his port scrape uncomfortably, but it was offset by Leon’s enthusiastic plunge into a story about how the cats in Aquroya got around the city without falling into its many waterways.

Al would’ve loved it.

Ed just enjoyed the respite as the weight lifted off his chest for a few hours.

* * *

If only that feeling would last.

As soon as Ed reached Resembool, the temporary peace evaporated. Memories slammed into him like the train he’d just disembarked. Sitting on the bench with Winry, brushing off her concerns about his automail maintenance, waving goodbye out the window. A thousand and one moments that had all seemed so insignificant when they were happening. Who knew that the time she picked him up from the station on his way back from North City and whacked him with a wrench for scuffing up the plating on his leg would also be the last?

Nostalgia pricked at Ed’s nerves, rubbing them raw as he crumpled up his ticket, tossed it in the trash, and left the platform. He didn’t even stop to greet the station manager, just shuffled out of town and began making his way down the long, winding road to Pinako’s.

Hitching a ride on someone’s wagon would’ve been easier, but Ed didn’t think he could manage another conversation. Leon had used up all of his social points for the day. Possibly the entire week. The only thing left now was the weight on his shoulders and his own fucking misery.

It was late afternoon by the time he reached Pinako’s house. The sun was streaking its final farewell against the clouds as he hobbled up the steps and rapped on the door. Den sounded the alarm inside, but she was getting too old to run to the door like she used to. Instead, she barked all the way through the house despite Pinako’s repeated commands of _shut up, you old mongrel_. Then the latch was being undone and the door was opening and—

“Ed? What are you doing here?” Pinako asked, masking her surprise with a judgmental once-over. “You look like shit.”

Frowning, Ed crossed his arms over the cut on his chest, not that it did any good. “Hello to you fucking too.”

“If you want endless gratitude for your presence, you can pay for it at the hotel in town. If you’re going to stay here, hurry up and get moving. You’re letting in all the bugs.”

Well then.

Pinako pushed the screen door wider and turned on her heel, leaving it up to Ed to either let it slam closed or catch it and follow her inside. He chose the latter. There weren’t any bugs when he glanced up at the outside light on his way by, so he figured this must be her new way of greeting him. It was kind of refreshing. No one could ever say Pinako didn’t cut right to the chase. There was no beating around the bush when it came to her.

“You really do look terrible,” Pinako said in another prime example of that once Ed closed the inner door. “And I’m not just talking about the blood.”

“Well, I’ve been awake for thirty-seven hours so… yeah.”

If only sleep deprivation explained it all.

Ed kicked off his shoes and shuffled after Pinako into a spare bedroom that had been repurposed into her workshop. The bins that lined the room were full of automail parts, various tools were scattered across the worktable, and the bookshelves sagged beneath the weight of the reference manuals they held, many of them newer editions.

From the looks of things, she’d picked up more clients since he left. She probably had to now that Winry wasn’t around to help out. Ed made a mental note to start sending her a percentage of his pay. It was hard to imagine Pinako ever kicking the bucket, but she still shouldn’t have to work so hard at her age.

“You’re limping,” Pinako said, interrupting Ed’s thoughts. She pushed Den out of the way and hopped onto the chair. “I figured this visit had something to do with your leg.”

“In my defense, it was for a good cause.”

“Is that so?”

“Stopped a serial killer, saved a girl’s life.” Almost got her killed in the process, too, but Ed’s throat closed up before he could even think of speaking those words out loud. “You know, the usual.”

Pinako hummed. “So what went wrong?”

“I got shot in the process. The bullet ended up stuck in the port. I think it hit a few wires, too. They’ve been giving me intermittent shock therapy,” Ed said. “You got time to dig it out and patch me up?”

“Time for my best customer? Always.” Pinako blew a smoke ring, then offered him a crooked smile over her shoulder. “As long as you’re paying. Now get over here.”

Ed waited for Pinako to clear some space on the worktable before sliding onto it. Rolling up his pant leg, he watched out of the corner of his eye as she selected three – no, four – tools from the pile. Each one was too sharp and too pointy and not at all used in routine automail maintenance. They glinted in the soft lamplight, making him instantly queasy.

“No anesthetic?” Ed asked, voice arching a little higher than normal.

Pinako slid a bottle of brandy across the table. He uncapped it while she disconnected his automail and set it aside, but he’d barely had a chance to take a swig of the amber liquid before she was digging into his thigh.

“Fuck!”

“Stop squirming around,” Pinako said without remorse.

“I would if you’d— _grrraaah_ — be gentler.” Pinako’s only response was to twist one of the tools to the side so she could probe the other deeper. If she wasn’t just about the only family he had left, he would’ve called her a cold, hard bitch. “How about a little— _hnnng_ — warning next time? Or at least— give the brandy a chance— to hit my bloodstream— damn it, that _hurts_.”

“You got yourself shot, didn’t dress the wound, and left the bullet in there to fester. Of course it’s going to hurt, you ingrate.”

“I didn’t want to mess anything up, you old hag!” Ed shot back, although he could see where she was coming from. The skin around the entrance wound was puffy and red with the beginnings of an infection.

However, any further insult he might’ve hurled at Pinako dissolved into an anguished growl as electricity skittered across his entire body. She’d finally reached the port. Ed’s muscles twitched uncontrollably any time she shifted the wires out of the way, but worse than that was the dull scrape of steel on steel as she pried the bullet free. It set his teeth on edge, had him biting down on one knuckle in an attempt to remain still. 

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

Pinako pulled the tools out, along with the bullet, and the loss of both was better than any shot of hard liquor Ed had ever had. Still, he took another long chug from the bottle of brandy just to be sure.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Pinako said. She ignored Ed’s subsequent glare by rummaging in one of the worktable’s side drawers.

“Speak for yourself.”

Withdrawing a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages, she began cleaning Ed’s wound. “I always thought you’d lose some of that recklessness after the Promised Day, but here we are. Some things never change.”

That statement didn’t feel as good now as it did when Mustang had said it. Probably because Ed was coming to terms with the fact that it was a bald-faced lie in every possible way.

Everything had changed. Winry was dead, Mustang had fucked him, Al was starting a new life in Xing, and Ed had left everything behind in East City because he couldn’t hold it together anymore, because the grief had snuck up on him so suddenly that it had melded with Sheska’s situation, fused together in his mind until he couldn’t separate one pain from the other.

That Mustang had read it plain as day was probably the only thing that _hadn’t_ changed. He’d always been able to read people as easily as a kid read the comics section of a newspaper. Everything else? Yeah fucking right. Nothing was the same anymore.

“I guess,” Ed mumbled instead. “Glad I could be predictable.”

He felt the weight of Pinako’s regard but couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before she returned to wrapping his leg. “You never answered my question. What are you doing here?”

“Automail repair. I thought that was fairly obvious.”

“No, I meant what are you doing _here_?” Pinako asked. “You could have gone to Garfiel. Or anywhere in Rush Valley, really. As much business as you bring in, anyone would be happy to take you on.”

Ed shrugged. “It’s been a while since I had good stew. Needed to get away for a while, too, find some space to breathe. I… kinda got into it with my CO.” He wasn’t quick enough to avoid Pinako’s eyes the second time around. “It’s not a big deal. I got angry, he got analytical. Now I’m just… really fucking tired.”

The silence stretched out for a minute while Pinako tied off the bandage, then she patted Ed’s leg, scooped up the brandy he’d set aside, and hopped down from the chair. She found one of the old crutches Al had used during his recovery in the corner and handed it over. His automail must not be too busted up if she wasn’t going to bother outfitting him with a temporary prosthetic.

“Well, come on,” she said, motioning towards the kitchen when he didn’t immediately stand up. “The stew will have to wait until tomorrow, but I’ll start a pot of coffee. You can drink that while I take a look at the rest of your injuries.”

Smiling thinly, Ed hobbled after her. “Thanks, Granny, but it’s not that kind of tired.”

“I know.” Of course she did. She was like Mustang. She always knew. “Coffee won’t hurt, though.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

* * *

“Don’t think you get to laze around all day just because you’re staying here,” Pinako said by way of good morning the next day. “I’ll have your automail finished this evening. Until then, go for a walk, stretch everything out. You must be sore after last night.”

Ed, who’d paused at the bottom of the stairs at the brusque greeting, blew a raspberry and continued on towards the kitchen. “You really need to work on your hellos.”

Truthfully, though, he was sore. He could feel it in his shoulder when he reached for a coffee mug and his chest with every breath he took, in his stump of a leg even though he wasn’t putting any pressure on it. Even the parts of him that weren’t injured were stiff, a parting gift from the ordeal in Eastern Command that he absolutely did not fucking want.

“Maybe I shouldn’t because you didn’t seem to get the message,” Pinako said from the workshop.

“Damn, Granny, at least let me grab some coffee before you kick me out.”

“You heard me!”

“Fucking—” Leaning against the wall, Ed balanced the mug in one hand, his crutch in the other, and somehow managed to slip his shoe on without falling. “There! I’m going! Happy now?” he yelled as he shouldered his way out the door without waiting for an answer.

The morning sunlight immediately blinded him. It took a careful couple of steps and a lot of blinking before he felt confident that he wouldn’t trip down the stairs. He’d just passed the rock wall that bordered the property line when he heard the squeal of the screen door opening. 

“Ed,” Pinako called.

Groaning under his breath, Ed stopped. What more could she possibly have to nag about? It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. He was prepared to level her with his most withering glare – whatever good it would do – but when he turned and saw the expression on her face, he blinked in surprise.

“Pay your respects while you’re out,” she said. “It’s only right. You don’t know when you’ll be here next, and it’s been a while.”

Funny how quickly his day had gone downhill. Not that it had been all sunshine and rainbows to begin with, despite the literal rays of sunshine cascading brightly over the countryside and what looked like a rainbow courtesy of last night’s shower in the distance, but at least he’d had approximately six hours of sleep to separate him from this moment and the worst thirty-seven hour stretch in history.

 _One_ of the worsts. The fact that there was more than one probably said something about the trajectory of his life, but that was a topic for another day. Or never.

Point was, with that one little reminder, Pinako had caused Ed’s whole day to backslide into dangerous territory. She didn’t seem too worried about it, though, just dropped that bombshell and promptly disappeared back inside. The screen door smacked the frame with a note of finality, and Ed took that as his cue to continue on down the road.

It really was a nice day, everything else aside. There was nothing quite like spring in Resembool. The sun was warm against his skin, but there was a soft breeze that kept it from getting too hot, and in the distance he could hear the steady drone of tractors preparing the fields for spring planting and the occasional sheep’s bleating. 

Too nice to be thinking about how shitty his life was.

Too nice to have the weight of reality dragging him down.

Too nice to be haunted by ghosts.

So when he came up on the fork in the road, he looked briefly to the left, down the path that would take him to the cemetery, to his parents, to Winry, then turned to the right and headed into town.

* * *

It was dark by the time Ed returned, and Pinako was sitting on the front porch amidst a cloud of smoke with Den sprawled across her feet. She took one long look at him, a thousand-yard stare that he felt deep down in his very soul, and nodded as if whatever defiant emotion scrawled across his face was exactly what she’d expected to see.

“You didn’t go visit them.”

It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be. Ed lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug and tilted his face up to the star-studded sky. It was a deep indigo, the color of a bruise. He imagined it looked a bit like his heart by that point.

“It’s not like they’re going anywhere,” he said.

And that was that.

Pinako didn’t berate or question him, didn’t drag him through the mud or make him feel guilty, didn’t call him weak, just hummed and slowly stood. “Your leg is ready. Come on.”

* * *

It took almost a week of taking a right at the fork before Ed mustered the strength to take a left. He’d had his automail back for five days now, but it didn’t make him move any faster. Not down that road. He drug his feet like he was trudging through quicksand, like he was walking to his own death. The way his chest clenched when he topped the hill and spotted the cemetery, maybe he was.

Ed hesitated before the iron gates. The wind that had seemed so soothing the past few days whined low and mournful in his ears now, and goosebumps shivered down his spine. Beneath that dreary sky, the headstones seemed to mock him: _look at all the ways you failed us, all the ways you let us down_.

A series of images flashed through his mind. Matted hair splayed across the pillow, bloodied rags draped over the side of a bucket, Al and Pinako kneeling beside the bed, tarnished earrings on the nightstand, the flat line of the monitor. Ed backed away from the cemetery as panic rose fast and real. He could rush headlong into a fight and take on homunculi without a second thought and be willing to sacrifice everything he was to save Al, but he couldn’t do this.

Just—

Fucking—

Couldn’t.

So it was with a strangled, desperate noise that he turned tail and ran back down the road.

* * *

Ed lurched through the front door, sagged back against it, and slowly slid to the floor. Burying his face in his hands, he tried to slow his breathing, but the way his heart was jackhammering against his ribs only compounded the panicked feeling clamping around his heart like a vice. By the time the sound of approaching footsteps registered, he was all but hyperventilating.

“Ed,” Pinako began softly, but he shook his head.

“I can’t do it. I can’t, Granny, I—”

It had all happened so fucking fast.

Forty-three days after Winry had finished up his maintenance and he’d returned to East City, Ed had gotten a call that she was sick. Six days later, he found out it was critical. Ten and a half hours later, he was barging off the train and into the Rockbell house to find her throwing up blood. Eighteen days later, she was dead.

Sixty-seven days. That’s all the time Winry had from the moment she’d contracted Krovávyj Fever to the time she’d taken her last breath. Just two months of rapid, agonizing, terrifying decline.

And it was all because of him.

“I don’t know how to move past this,” Ed panted. “I can’t let it go.”

“You can.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Ed insisted, grinding the words out through gritted teeth, fingers tightening in his bangs. “I’m so— _god_ , I could just— there were people sick in those villages. I should’ve known better than to come straight back and expose her like that. She’d never been that far north, couldn’t have built up an immunity. I did that to her. I was an idiot, and I’m so fucking _mad_ at myself.”

A heavy silence spooled out beneath the rush of blood in his ears. Pinako didn’t say anything, and Ed curled into himself even more as a truth he’d shoved down since before Winry had even died welled up from some dark, hidden place inside him like a dirty secret.

“But I’m also pissed at Winry. I’m fucking _pissed_ at her for not telling us. The signs would’ve started within days of her catching it. If she would’ve told us sooner, we could’ve helped her, taken her to a doctor or something, tried to—” Ed sucked in a shaky breath. “And maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference. Maybe she would’ve died anyway. But I don’t _know_ that. I don’t know because she didn’t give us a fucking _chance_ , she just… ignored it. And I can’t understand why. Why didn’t she tell me? Did she not trust me? Did she not want us to worry? I don’t fucking know. And now she’s _gone_ , and I can’t—”

He couldn’t stop thinking _what if_.

“I wish I could go back,” Ed whispered into his hands. “Just for one day. I’d notice it. I’d keep it from happening.”

But that wasn’t right. Ed told himself he’d do better the second time around, that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, but history told another story. There were so many lost chances, so many missed opportunities, so many things he’d do differently if he had just a single do-over. In the end, Winry had become one more fuck-up in a long line of them. With statistics like that, how could he ever expect to do anything else?

Regret.

His life might as well be defined by it.

That was why he deserved this.

He wanted to remember Winry as she’d been before. When he thought of her, he wanted to picture the brilliant, vibrant gearhead with a heart for everyone and hands that could heal, not the wan, wasted, wisp of a girl lying prostrate on the bed, thin trails of blood leaking from her ears, eyes, and nose as she struggled to breathe, to keep her heart pumping for just one more beat.

But that was the way things went. Ed had fucked up. Everyone blamed the disease, but he might as well have been the one to kill her. The fever had shoved the knife into her heart, but he’d placed the tip against her chest. He deserved this pain and all the terrible memories that came with it. He deserved to watch her die over and over again every time he closed his eyes.

“Do you know how old I am, Ed?” Pinako finally asked, pulling Ed from the vicious circle of self-deprecating thoughts.

Ed shrugged without looking up. “Hundred and fifty.”

“Nice try, wise ass.” The floorboards creaked as Pinako came over to sit beside him. “No, I’m seventy-four, and during that time, I’ve had to bury my parents, my husband, my son, my daughter-in-law, and now my granddaughter. You could say I know a few things about regret.”

If it didn’t feel like Ed was about to splinter at the seams, he would’ve laughed. Pinako really did know everything, even his thoughts. “It’s different, though.” He didn’t want to invalidate their deaths but, “None of those were your fault. You weren’t the one to—”

“Wasn’t I?”

Ed shifted just enough to cast Pinako a sideways glance, but she wasn’t looking at him. Puffing on her pipe, she stared unseeingly out into the room. The house had been in the Rockbell family for generations. Ed wondered if Pinako was ever haunted by ghosts the same way he was, if they ever dogged her steps from room to room.

“I told my husband not to worry about the headaches that turned out to be the result of a brain tumor,” she continued. “I encouraged Yuriy and Sarah to use their skills to help others in Ishval. Placing some of the blame for their deaths on me isn’t exactly a stretch.”

Well, fuck. Ed hadn’t known all of that. But it only reinforced his train of thought, and he frowned as he drew his legs up, folded his arms over his knees, and rested his chin on them. “It’s just not fair.”

Any of it.

 _All_ of it.

They were childish words for a childish belief, but Pinako simply blew out a stream of smoke and said, “Life rarely is.”

“But Al… and you… and me…” Ed bit at his lower lip, fighting to find the words around the lump in his throat. “We’ve already gone through so fucking much.” 

“Yes, we have. And now you get to learn life’s most important lesson: that you can survive countless ordeals and beat the odds, but shit will still happen anyway. You don’t get a pass just because you helped save the world. Still…” Pinako chewed on the end of the pipe. “It’s a terrible thing, living on after everyone else you’ve loved is gone. That’s all we can do, though. Keep living. That’s the hard part.”

A fresh wave of grief coursed through Ed to the beat of his own pulse, spider webbing throughout his body. It was as real and tangible as the blood in his veins, and in that moment, it took everything he had to hold himself together. He felt stretched thin, wounded and broken, like he’d been ground down to a greasy, pathetic smear beneath life’s heel.

How the fuck was he supposed to keep on living when it felt like he had absolutely nothing left to give? There was Al, obviously, but even he didn’t need Ed the way he used to, and all the rest of the people in his life were close, yes, but not vital. Not in the way Winry had been.

Without warning, a bottle of whiskey appeared in front of his face. Ed didn’t bother asking where Pinako had procured it, just accepted it, unscrewed the lid, and took a long swig.

“Winry should be the one living. She _would_ be if I hadn’t… if I'd…” Ed trailed off.

“She was at peace in the end,” Pinako said. “She didn’t blame you, so why do you insist on blaming yourself?”

“Because it was my fault. Say what you want, but it was. Mom. Winry. Even all the shit that Al had to go through. I did that, and I can never forget it.” With a sigh, Ed absently watched the whiskey as he swilled the bottle. “Sometimes I think we create our own pain.”

So much suffering, all because of some offhand decisions he’d made. And sure, that was always the truth of things. Physics said there could be no effect without a cause. But fuck if it didn’t hurt. He’d do anything to have Winry back. Fucking anything. She didn’t deserve to suffer and die the way she had when the only thing she’d ever done wrong was become his friend.

“Thing is,” Ed continued, “I thought it was getting better. I’d gone back to work, things were going back to normal.”

“You were running.”

Ed’s head whipped around so fast the room spun, and he found Pinako meeting his eyes for the first time during their conversation. “What?”

“You think just because you weren’t travelling all over the country that you weren’t running? You hadn’t dealt with Winry’s death. Not really. You still haven’t. You’ve been running all this time.” Reaching out, Pinako tapped a finger on his chest, right above his heart. “In here.”

“Then tell me how the fuck I’m supposed to move past this,” he said, voice rising defensively from the statement that had hit too close to home. “She’d barely had a chance to live. There were so many people she could’ve helped still, and I took that away from her. Her legacy, everything she was or could’ve been, I—”

“Don’t think so highly of yourself, Ed.” Pinako sucked on the pipe, turned, and exhaled the smoke out into the room. “Not everything is about you.”

Throwing up his free hand in exasperation, Ed brought the bottle of whiskey to his mouth. “Well, fuck you, too.”

“I'm just saying that you didn't take anything. Winry’s worth can’t be defined or limited or diminished in any way by you. She was so much more than that.”

“God, you think I don’t fucking know that?” Ed demanded. “She was a better person than I could ever fucking hope to be.”

“Then stop wallowing in your own pity,” Pinako shot back, and all of Ed’s anger deflated like a popped balloon, vanished just like that. The absence of it left him feeling used up and burned out. Only a husk remained.

“I want to.” Ed stared at his fingers curled around the neck of the bottle. He deserved this pain, yes, but fuck if he didn’t want to be free of it all the same. “I just can’t… find myself anymore.”

“And there’s your problem.” For the second time, Ed looked back to find Pinako watching him closely, carefully. “You keep trying to find who you used to be, but you’ll never be the person you were before you lost her. That’s the point. If you were, she didn’t mean anything to you. If you didn’t feel different, you wouldn’t have loved her as much as you did.”

Ed sucked in a shuddering breath, eyes burning.

“She changed you, Ed. She changed all of us. That’s her legacy.”

* * *

Something fundamental shifted after that night.

Ed wasn’t back to normal. Honestly, he was still trying to figure out what the new normal was. And things didn’t snap back into place. How could they when such an important piece was missing? But somehow he knew he was on the backside of this now. Instead of a yawning, endless void, there was a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, a promise that things would get better. He just had to be willing to accept it.

First things first on that journey: see what permanent damage he’d caused by running out of East City.

After that… well, he’d figure the rest out as he went. Best not to overdo it. One step at a time. He’d never been much for planning anyway.

“Leaving?”

Ed glanced around before finally finding Pinako over the edge of the porch pulling weeds from one of the flowerbeds Mei had started during a visit. There were four in total, each one filled with exotic, flowering plants that doubled as ingredients in traditional Xingese medicine. Mei had shown Pinako how they could be used to treat everything from seasonal allergies to arthritis, and while Pinako hadn’t gushed her appreciation or anything, she spent enough time tending to them that it was obvious she enjoyed it.

“What makes you think that?” Ed questioned, even though she was right.

Pinako shrugged. “You just have that look about you. The one you get when you’re heading out.”

Smiling slightly, Ed shook his head. How the fuck did she do that? She couldn’t have seen him when he’d come out the front door, and she hadn’t looked up at him yet. Even if she had, he wasn’t dressed any different or carrying anything unusual. He’d taken more on his daily walks than he was now. But she’d called it the minute he’d left the house, and she was right on the money, as always. Crazy old bird. 

“Yeah,” Ed said, resting his forearms on the porch railing. “I best be getting back to East City.” It was time for him to stop running. For real this time. He’d still been in denial while he was in Xing and when he’d first returned to work. He could see that now.

“It’s about damn time.” Sitting back on her feet, Pinako brushed the dirt off her hands. “I was going to go broke feeding a bottomless pit like you.”

“And I was going to go deaf listening to you bitch about everything,” Ed retorted. “Should’ve left right after you fixed up my leg.”

“Lazy half-pint.”

“Overbearing relic.”

“Clumsy troublemaker.”

“Nagging midget.”

They glared at each other for a moment, then a barely-there smile quirked the corners of Pinako’s mouth. Ed mirrored the expression. For all they argued, he really did care about her. He’d known her now for more years than he’d known his own parents. She was his family, and he loved her, even if he never told her that in so many words.

“You take care of yourself out there, Ed. You hear me?” Pinako said, pushing to her feet. “No more of this moping around, feeling sorry for yourself nonsense. She wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“I know, and I will.” Ed skip-hopped down the steps to meet her at the bottom. “I’m getting… better now. A little. I think.”

“That’s a start.”

Dipping his chin in farewell, Ed prepared to hoof it to the train station. He felt lighter than he had in weeks. Not light enough to take a left at the fork and go by the cemetery, but light enough that he wasn’t drowning in his own despair anymore. He was a survivor. Always had been. This wouldn’t break him. He refused to let it. He might be in ruins, but he wasn’t ruined. Not yet.

“Hey, Granny,” he called back, glad he remembered before he got too far down the road. “If a kid named Leon calls you about an automail adjustment, send his bills to me. I’ll cover all the cost.”

Pinako pulled the pipe from her mouth and raised it in farewell. “You got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're officially through the worst of it! Eternal thanks to everyone who's left comments or kudos <333 I appreciate each and every one of you!
> 
> Updates and items of inspiration are being tracked [here](http://amidst-stars.tumblr.com/tagged/remembered-landscape).


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